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'UNITED 8TATLS OF AMERICA. 



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LETTERS 



OF 



PEREGRINE piCKLE. 



LETTERS 



7^, 



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OF 



PEREGRINE PICKLE 



BY 



GEORGE P. UPTON. 



" This, That and the Other:' 



38G9 



X^?> 



- 7.r — --^^ 



CHICAQO: 

THE WESTERN NEWS COMPANY, 
121 and 128 State Street. 

18 69 



T53I13 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 18C9, by 

THE WESTERN NEWS COIMPANY, 

In tlio Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the 

Northern District of Illinois. 



t^nXv Printed by J. Waddinoton, '^To « 
^/^Ir^ 121 Madison Stueet, Cuicaqo, III. \QI^ 



|o|v|kk, 



Sympathy and Encouragement 



HAVE CONSTANTLY WELCOMED AND FOLLOWED 



THESE LETTERS, 



|w» I 



olume 



IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. 




PRE FA CE. 




HE contents of this book originally appeared in 
the columns of the Chicago Tribune, in the 
form of weekly letters, over the nom de plume of 
" Peregrine Pickle," devoted to matters of gossip and in- 
terest in the world of amusement. Necessarily, much of 
this matter was of an ephemeral nature, which perished 
with publication. Many of these letters, also, were de- 
voted to topics of a purely local and temporary character, 
which, at this present date, would possess no interest. 
I have, therefore, taken care to preserve only such parts 
of them as have a general bearing, and have arranged 
them under appropriate heads, with dates at the end of 
each, as a matter of convenience and reference. 

These letters were commenced in the early part of 
the winter of 1 866-' 6 7, and have, therefore, reached 
the very respectable age of nearly three years, i^ike 
other children, they are old enough to go alone, and I 
therefore send them out into the world, richly endowed 



vi. Preface. 

with my blessings, which is all I liave to give them. 
Should they succeed in the world, I shall be profoundly 
astonished, as they were born amidst the press and 
hurry of other editorial duties, and they came into the 
world scarce half made up. Should they fail, I shall at 
least have the gratification of showing that Lytton Bul- 
wer was in error in regard to the lexicon of youth. 

The characters — Old Blobbs and Mrs. Blobbs, Aure- 
lia, Celeste, Mignon, Blanche, Boosey, Fitz-Herbert, and 
the Maiden Aunt — whom the reader will find in these 
pages, may be real or not, as the reader fancies. None of 
them are willing, however, to have me divulge their real 
names, as that would destroy the little mystery which 
envelopes our breakfast gatherings, and would put us 
ill at ease when talking with the reader, as we hope to 
do for some time to come, through the columns of the 
Tribune. Meanwhile, if the reader knows any large- 
hearted, large-handed n,ian, who speaks very plainly and 
hates shams, it is quite possible that man is Old Blobbs. 
Mrs. Blobbs is a very good woman when she is severely 
let alone, and her ideas of etiquette are not shocked. 
Aurelia is a plain, practical, well-educated woman, who 
shed all her nonsense when her first baby made her ap- 
pearance. Celeste is a little flighty, and would be a 
Girl of the Period, if that did not involve vulgarity. 
Mignon is the pet of our set, keenly alive to whatever 
is beautiful, always lively and always graceful, and 



Preface. vii. 

Blanche is her companion — a quiet and lovable girl. 
Boosey is a good-hearted, weak-kneed young fellow, 
quite harmless and very self-opinionated, while Fitz- 
Herbert is an incapable we cannot shake off. Tlie 
Maiden Aunt is not with us now, having gone to a 
better world than this. Perhaps the reader knows all 
these people. They are not difficult to find. 

These pages may prove to you, oh ! reader, but a 
garden overrun with weeds. Should you, however, find 
only one simple little flower worth laying away as a 
souvenir, my purpose will have been answered. 

G. P. U. 
Chicago, September 20, 1S69. 




CONTENTS. 



The Season i 

Sleeping in Church 3 

The Organ Grinder 5 

A Retrospect 7 

Whited Sepulchres 9 

Nothing and Babies 13 

The Circus 18 

Before the Wedding 20 

The Wedding 29 

Muscular Christianity 37 

The Boston Girl 41 

The Dead 44 

Our Thanksgiving 50 

Mrs. Grundy 55 

Behind the Scenes 57 

A Christmas Carol 68 

The New Year 74 

Ole Bull 80 

Small Talk 82 

Flat on the Back 85 

Getting out of Bed 91 

The Teapot 96 

A Masque loi 

The Miracle of Creation 104 

Fashionable Weddings 107 

April 113 

A Summer Reverie . • 116 



X. Contents. 

The Germans and Music 119 

The Old Story 126 

In Memoriam 131 

Lake Michigan 135 

Rip Van Winkle 141 

An Autumn Reverie 149 

The Best Woman in the World 151 

The School House . . . . , . . -153 

A New Life 157 

Old Blobbs — His Speech 160 

Death of the Maiden Aunt 163 

The New Year 167 

Public Parties 171 

Aurelia's Baby . . . . . . . .176 

The Quarrel 1S2 

A Woman not of the Period . . . . . 185 

A Trip to Heaven 1S7 

Day Dreams 193 

Lent and Children 195 

Bells 20J 

Tenors and Bassos 207 

A Child's Story — The Three Roses . . . .213 

The Old 222 

Old Blobbs' Opinions 232 

Types 237 

Woman in Church 245 

The Mountains 249 

The Jubilee 254 

The Double Life 291 

Love and the Blue Flower ..... 298 

Marriage 307 

Old Blobgs Redivivus 322 

A Trip to Hell 329 

L'Envoi . . • 339 



THE SEASON. 



f^HjHE backbone of the winter is broken. The 
I ^H Carnival is about over. The lights are going 
■•^**"| out and the curtain is about to be rung down. 
The Spring will soon come slowly up this way, and then 
Lent. We shall take off our masques, be good children, 
and moralize on the routs, the follies and frivolities- of 
December, January and February; and moralizing, we 
shall pronounce the winter the gayest, wildest, most 
dashing and smashing Chicago has ever known. 

The winter has been one perpetual ball and party. 
Private amusement has usurped the place of public, and 
as a consequence, concerts and operas have suffered. 
The poor Philharmonic has withered like a leaf under 
this neglect, and Strakosch has lost money at a frightful 
rate. Soiree, ball and party have succeeded each other 
with wonderful rapidity, and the belles have been literal- 
ly kept whirling until they are worn out and pine for 
the grateful Lent, when they can rest and get ready for 
the watering places. 

The milliners, mantau-makers, dress-makers, hair- 
dressers, and others who make such exquisite fits and 
tremendous bills, have been in clover. The young la- 
dies sometimes, after a season of only one night, come 

8 



2 The Season. 

home so smashed that there is little left of their light 
fabrics and heavy waterfalls. Papa's purse has bled 
freely, while mamma, who will wear a train and try to 
eclipse her daughter, gets trodden on and banged up 
and has to go into the toilet dry dock quite often for 
repairs. This is the reason why the milliner et al. high- 
priced individuals have been happy and old Blobbs has 
staid away from evening meetings and, growling at the 
fire-screen, made an Ursa Major of himself. 

So we go. Young Boosey and Aurelia care little for 
the tariff, reconstruction, high church controversy, tax 
bills and legislative stealings. They are optimists. They 
want the best, and they want it now while the purse 
holds out. They have had a gay winter, will dawdle 
along through the spring and leave us just in time to es- 
cape the hot weather and the cholera, and we shall miss 
them as we miss the butterflies, and hail their return as 
they come back in the fall for another winter cam- 
paign. I do not know that they build many houses, 
endow many colleges, teach many Sunday school class- 
es or consume much calico and cold water; but then 
the streets would be very monotonous, and the counter- 
jumpers would grow rusty and life would be tinted with 
ashes of roses without them. 

February 16, 1867. 



SLEEPING IN CHURCH. 




|S^| AM usually of a very philosophical tempera- 
ment and preserve my equilibrium with a won- 
derful degree of success. I can resist even the 
blandishments of the tax-collector and never get up to 
boiling point, as it requires too much effort ; but I have 
at last failed to retain my composure ; and I have failed, 
because an unfortunate Irishman wandered into a church 
in Rhode Island and went to sleep and was sent to jail 
for ten days, not for going to church, but for going to 
sleep. He Avas not drunk. He did not even snore. 
He simply went to sleep like a good Christian. And 
this innovation upon the ancient rights of pew-holders, 
and especially of strangers, was endured by the pa- 
rishioners without a murmur. 

Now, if we are going to establish precedents about 
sleeping in church, wouldn't it be well to reverse the 
order of things? For instance, send every minister to 
jail for ten days who cannot keep his hearers awake. 
Or, send every architect, who builds churches without 
means of ventilation, to jail for the same length of time. 
If I am to be deprived of my customary nap at the head 
of the family pew, why, then I must go where preachers 
are less somnolent or stay at home and take my nap, 
and thereby diminish the revenues of the church. And 



4 A Protest. 

if all the heads which nod assent so vigorously to the 
preacher's premises, are to be deprived of their siestas, 
what will become of the preachers? Does good old 
Deacon Jones, who always wakes up in time to pass the 
contribution box, intend to encourage this state of 
things? Does good sister Jones, who drowses just a 
trifle, notwithstanding her smelling-bottle, vote in favor 
of it? 

I never heard of but one man before, who was pun- 
ished for sleeping in church, and he was Eutychus, I 
believe, who was sitting in an open window, and falling 
into a deep sleep, had a worse fall than that, by falling 
out of the window. Now, Eutychus was a very foolish 
young man to go to sleep in an open window, and de- 
served his punishment for his stupidity, but there is little 
danger of any one suffering in that manner now-a-days, 
for an open window in a church is as rare as a church 
without a contribution box or a strawberry festival. 

In another respect, this sleeping in church is a com- 
pliment to the minister. It indicates that his congrega- 
tion are satisfied with the soundness of his doctrines and 
are willing to trust him alone. Suppose Brother Ryder 
should preach eternal damnation, or Brother Hatfield 
should announce universal salvation, or Brother Locke 
should advocate the elevation of the Host, would their 
parishioners do much sleeping? 

Not much ! 

I feel for that unfortunate Milesian. I feel that in his 
punishment, landmarks are swept away and that an old 
established usage, sanctified by the experience of imme- 
morial ageS; is overturned. 

March 2, 1867. 



THE ORGAN GRINDER. 



^^E is the child of sunny Itcaly, and it is to be 

^ n regretted that he is not with his parents. 

acq Likewise his monkey. 
" I was reminded this morning that Spring is slowly 
coming up this way, by meeting him and his organ and 
his red-blanketted monkey ; and the air was full of the 
infernal jangle and din, ground out by that remorseless 
man ; and as I passed along I reflected. 

Does the Italian take naturally to the hand-organ? 
Is he born with the crank and the monkey in his mouth? 
What sin has he committed that he should be compelled 
to tramp, making day and night hideous? What be- 
comes of him in winter? Where does he live? Does 
he go where the flies go? Is he preserved in amber 
from Autumn to Spring? You see him on one of the 
last days of Autumn. A biting wind the next day and 
the birds are gone. If you ask me what becomes of 
him, I will answer, I will tell you, when you tell me 
what becomes of all the hoop-skirts. Does the Organ- 
Grinder go to church? Does he pay taxes? Are there 
a Mrs. Organ-Grinder and little Organ-Grinders bringing 
up little monkeys to the business? Do they live in 
houses, or do they burrow in the ground ? Where do 
they go when they die? In fact, do they ever die? Are 
they not like the wandering Jew, compelled to keep 
moving, grinding as they go ? 



6 His Mission. 

These questions are worthy of consideration. There 
is only one thing certain about him. He is as resistless 
as fate. Give him a penny to go away and he will come 
the next day for a similar favor. Threaten to shoot him 
and he will laugh at you. Buttons and board-nails are 
just as current with him as pennies. Tell him your 
family are at the point of death, and he will grind out a 
soothing strain and come the next day with several more 
of his tribe to play a dirge at the funeral. I think I can 
eat a frugal meal with a Digger Indian ; I am even pre- 
pared to recognize the greasy Esquimaux and horse-eat- 
ing Gauls, but I cannot recognize a man and brother in 
the Organ-Grinder. 

He is one of those mysterious dispensations like the 
cholera, rinderpest and trichiniasis which only future 
ages may appreciate. Undoubtedly he has his mission. 
Undoubtedly there are people who dote on the Organ- 
Grinder and the organ and the monkey and are soothed 
with the touching story of "Old Dog Tray." Un- 
doubtedly there was an old woman who kissed a cow; 
and there are people at the antipodes who eat mice and 
other small deer. 

Such patience, determination, humility and industry, 
if applied to the Foreign Missions, would speedily clothe 
every Fiji sinner in a flannel jacket and his right mind. 
Were such attachments as exist between the Organ- 
Grinder and his monkey more common, we should 
rapidly approach the Millennium. Tramp on, then, O ! 
Organ-Grinder! Tramp on, O! monkey! It is meet 
we should be taught patience. 

April 13, 1867. 



A RETROSPECT. 




jHE young ladies have commenced doing a 
very naughty thing, which is nothing more nor 
less than inserting a looking-glass on the inner 
side of the book of " Common Prayer." It is so handy 
you know, when you are saying the responses, to pay 
your little devotions to the mirror, for how can one say 
the responses aright if her strings are fluttered or her 
chignon awry? And then you know you can get reflec- 
tions from Celeste over in the next slip and examine her 
toilet and all the time be looking at your Prayer 
Book, like a good child. For combining the altar and 
the toilet, there is nothing like it. When the Rector 
intimates that Aurelia is a worm of the dust, she will 
look at her chignon and think of the gregarines. When 
he cautions her against pride, the sweet little Pharisee 
will glance at Celeste's shadow and be thankful that she 
is not as proud as C. But when she lisps the confession 
to her looking-glass, will she discover that she has left 
undone the things she ought to have done, and be mis- 
erable all through the service? And when the Rector 
says: "Keep thy foot when thou goest into the house of 
Qq(J * * * g^j-j(^ offer not the sacrifice of fools," 
will she see a fool in the looking-glass? 



8 My Aunt. 

Which reminds me to say that I shall go to the Old 
Folks' Concert on Monday night ; and I shall revive the 
recollection of those days when Hepzibah, in a blue 
calico, sang treble and turned up her nose at Prudence, 
in bombazine, who sang second and always went off the 
key in the fugue ; of those days when Zephaniah played 
bass viol with an unctuous, solemn sound, and sister 
Brown thought it was about time that Huldy Perkins 
published her banns if she was ever "a-goin 'ter "; when 
old Deacon Jones couldn't sleep well through the ser- 
mon, the "tarnal" flies ''pestered him so;" when my 
aunt, in a black silk that would stand alone, and 
a white cap over those gray locks that are now strangely 
twisted among the roots of the daisies, always made the 
chorister mad when they sang Coronation because she 
couldn't get through the quirl in the final "Lord," with- 
out running off the track and wrecking half the congre- 
gation. There was a great deal of talk about this failing 
of my aunt's at the sewing bees, and it occasioned hard 
feelings between her and the chorister, but I have 
no doubt they have settled it now, and sing a great deal 
better than they did when they were in the flesh. 

At least, I hope they do. 

April 27, 1867. 




WHITED SEPULCHRES. 




LTHOUGH Aurelia has had a great deal on her 
mind during the past two or three days in get- 
ting ready for the Opera, she did not fail to 
remind me this morning, over her muffins, that I had 
agreed to say something about male whited sepulchres. 

She also did not fail to remind me that mite parties, 
sewing societies, private musical soirees, young ladies' 
charitable institutions, ladies' aid societies, and other 
mild forms of social delirium on which the Women of 
America dote, had unanimously declared I was "too 
bad" and that it was "a shame." 

If by some happy coincidence, I shall secure a similar 
state of feeling on the part of the Board of Trade,' the 
Young Mens' Debating Society, the Society for 
the Propagation of Knowledge in Bridgeport, the 
Good Templars, the Masonic Lodges, the Turners, the 
late Philharmonic Society, and other mild forms of mas- 
culine gregariousness — on which the Men of America 
dote, I shall account myself fortunate. 

Thus I said to Aurelia, as she rose from her muffins to 
once more endeavor to find the place in Swinburne's 
last poem, which she lost some days ago. The Dear Crea- 
ture thinks it a duty she owes society to read Swin- 
burne, but whenever she stops reading, she always loses 
her place, so that her reading of Swinburne is likely to 
prove the latest style of perpetual motion. 



lo Whited Sepulchres. 

Persuading her to forego Swinburne for a few minutes, 
I took the Dear Child into my den, the only part of 
the house which has thus far escaped the innovations of 
Mrs. Grundy, and I said to her: 

My Dear Child, you have hitherto formed your 
opinions of men from the samples furnished you at one 
dollar and fifty cents each, selected from the artificial 
articles concocted by Miss Muloch, Miss Bronte, Miss 
Evans, Dumas pcre, Henry Ward Beecher and others. 
You know very little of the real article, for which reason 
I w^ill catalogue a few of the best specimens of masculine 
whited sepulchres. 

Old Gunnybags, who sits at the head of his pew 
every Sunday morning, pretending to listen to the 
preacher, but in reality thinking of the invoice of sugar 
to arrive Monday morning; who contributes certain 
sums for the conversion of the Siamese, but kicks the 
beggar from his door ; who wreathes his face with smiles 
when he sees old Tea Chest in the next slip and in re- 
ality hates him because T. C. holds his I. O. U.; who 
reads the Confession very unctuously and pronounces the 
Amen very sonorously, at the same time inwardly cursing 
his next brown-stone-front neighbor, who got ahead of 
him in a bargain, on Saturday; who is all things to all 
men and a grindstone to the individual — he is a whited 
sepulchre and the sepulchre is full of hypocrisy. 

Mr. Cutaswell, who orders his claret at fifty dollars a 
dozen and superfluous lace for his wife at as many dol- 
lars a yard; who drives the fastest bays on the avenue; 
who takes an opera box for the season ; who imports 
pictures from Germany and cooks from France; who 
goes to Saratoga every summer and gives stunning 



Whited SepiUchres. ii 

soirees every winter; who does all these things when he 
ought to be paying his " calls" — he is a whited sepul- 
chre, and the sepulchre is full of swindling. 

Old Muslin D. Laine, who smiles and smirks and 
bows to and fawns upon his customers, and grinds his 
clerks into the dust ; who hands My Lady to her carriage 
with gracious, grinning suavity, and grinds the noses of 
his employees ; who irritates, goads and worries his 
clerks with regulations as petty as they are tyrannical ; 
who exacts constant, unremitting toil to the uttermost 
second, alike in rain and sunshine, in a store full of cus- 
tomers and a store empty ; who pays a man well for 
doing woman's work, and pays a woman a pittance for 
doing the same; who plays the petty tyrant over the 
slaves of his counter — he is a whited sepulchre, and his 
sepulchre is full of those who will confront him at the 
Great Assize. 

Rev. Augustus Fitz-Herbert, v/ho pays more attention 
to his linen than to his text ; who parts his hair with 
more care than he writes his discourses; who is sweet at 
a wedding and ravenish at a funeral ; who toadies to his 
wealthy parishioners ; who consigns the poor devil to 
eternal torment and glosses over the failings of Croesus ; 
who takes to the young ladies' aid societies and neglects 
the maternal meetings ; who, in the capacity of a shep- 
herd, prefers a tender young ewe to a faithful old sheep ; 
who feeds fat on the good things of earth and forgets 
those in the highways and byways ; who can tell you the 
last new ritualistic fashion of robe, but knows little of 
the spiritual fashion of the great congregation — he is a 
whited sepulchre, and his sepulchre is full of deceit. 

Young Boosey, who is the product of the tailor and 



12 Whited Sepulchres. 

the bootmaker, and never saw either of their autographs; 
who wears immaculate mutton-chops and swallow-tails; 
who varies with each changing wind of fashion; who 
simpers and lolls in your opera-box, my Dear Child, 
talks very softly in your ear, and is vulgar and profane 
away from you; whose highest ambition reaches his 
neck-tie and whose idea of Paradise is a place where all 
the good fellows go, to dress and show themselves to the 
female cherubs and angels — he is a whited sepulchre and 
his sepulchre is full of nothing. 

There are other whited sepulchres, my dear Aurelia, 
whom you may detect by slight observation. They 
cannot conceal the fact that they are whited. Their ex- 
teriors are not even plausible, so dense is the growth of 
noxious weeds about them. You can easily test 
your true gentleman. He carries his colors in his face, 
in his walk, in his clothes, in his manners. You will 
not do well to accept every St. Elmo who comes along 
under the impression that he will turn out to be a parson. 
The St. Elmos who start off as scoundrels always remain 
so. Miss Evans notwithstanding. Cain was not the only 
man who had his forehead branded. And, if you look 
carefully, my dear, at the whited sepulchres, which are 
full of vice, you will discover the sign on the front door. 

Aurelia, during the latter part of my homily, was a 
little fidgetty. She explained the cause of it to me. 
She had accepted young Boosey's invitation to Trova- 
tore on Monday night. I consoled her by reminding 
her that his whited sepulchre was perfectly harmless. She 
might pick off all the roses and honeysuckles without 
detriment. 

May 18, 1867. 



NOTHING AND BABIES. 



^mMO write about Something is no extraordinary 
g^lj feat; to write about Nothing is a feat not so 
^•^*J*1 easily performed. 

I propose to write about Nothing, as I have Nothing 
to write. 

Any one can be Something in the world. It requires 
genius to be Nothing. 

There are a very few people who have succeeded in 
being Nothing. In order to be Nothing it is hot ne- 
cessary to know Nothing. In fact, it requires a great 
deal of knowledge to be Nothing. By assiduous effort 
for the past quarter of a century, more or less, I have 
thoroughly succeeded in being Nothing, and I am now 
quietly enjoying the otium cum dignitate wl^ich apper- 
tains to that blessed condition, and can quietly philoso- 
phize on nullity under my fig-tree, lying flat on my back 
gazing at Nothing. You restless people who are Some- 
thing can have no idea of the absolute ecstasy — an ec- 
stasy more intoxicating than Hasheesh or Cannabis In- 
dica, and not so brutal and vulgar as Opium — which re- 
sults from being Nothing — with Nothing on your mind, 
Nothing in your pockets, Nothing to think of, Nothing 
to do. 



14 Benefits of Nothing. 

But I fancy old Scroggs, Avho has been doing Some- 
thing all his life, and thereby has been a nuisance all 
his life, and Mrs. Scroggs, who is Chairwoman of the 
Society for the Regeneration of Fourth Avenue, and is 
more of a nuisance than old Scroggs — I fancy them 
saying that I am of no use in the world. 

Am I not? 

Suppose I think Nothing, then at least I think no evil of 
any one. Suppose I say Nothing good of any one, I 
say Nothing bad. If I have Nothing, I have no taxes to 
pay ; no interest to collect ; no houses to burn ; nobody 
to gouge or harass, and nobody to gouge or harass me. 
Which is cheerful. If I am Nothing, no one cares for 
me, and equally I care for no one, so that no one and I 
are on good terms. Thus, you see, being Nothing, 
although I may accomplish no good in the world, I ac- 
complish no evil. Every evil, every misery, every war, 
every misfortune, all the high taxes, all the poor operas, 
all the tough beefsteaks, all the sour Green Seal, all the 
fires, murders, explosions, and other such cheerful 
casualties, are the direct result of the efforts of these 
people who are Something. 

Then, from a theological point of view, remember 
that if we were all Nothings, the Devil would have 
Nothing to do, and would have to let his fires go down 
and hang up his pitchforks, which would be a blessed 
thing for some of these people who are Somethings. 

Nullity' is the primal state of man. The Rev. Dr. 
Homilectics tries to impress upon me, each Sunday, the 
importance of going back to the days when Adam and 
Eve, in the latest cut of fig-leaves, played Romeo and 
Juliet under the apple-trees in Eden. He never stops 



Nothing. 15 

to think that their innocence was the immediate result 
of being Nothing and doing Nothing, and that just as 
soon as they set out to be Something, they entailed the 
curse of work upon all mankind. 

But I go further back than Adam and Eve. In the 
good old days of chaos, Nothing was in all its glory. 
It existed everywhere. No sight, no sound, no smell, 
no taste, No-thing. This was the normal condition. 

And of what use was it ? says Mrs. Increase, who is 
bringing up a large family of children, to be used here- 
after as grindstones for other j^eople's noses. 

Why, my dear woman of facts and figures and spheres 
of usefulness, God Almighty took it and made this great 
world out of it, with all its mountains and rocks and 
rivers, its sunsets and rainbows and stars, its panorama 
of beauty by day and night, and you yourself, although 
you are, probably, but a very small and a very ugly part 
of this creation. Yes, madame, you and I came from 
this Nothing. I have retained this Nothing with great 
success. You, on the other hand, have been striving to 
change your normal condition by being Something. It 
is not for me to say whether you have succeeded. A 
great many people who think they are Something are 
really Nothing, and a poor kind of Nothing at that. 

If I have said Nothing in writing on this subject, it 
was because I had Nothing to say. When one is wri- 
ting about Nothing, you know, he is not expected to say 
anything. 

Which reminds me of a baby. If you ask me how it 
reminds me, I cannot tell you. I only know that it re- 
minds me of those little but important animals. 

It is cheerful news for the future census-takers that 



1 6 Babies. 

babies have become fashionable in Paris. The "idea" 
will, of course, come immediately into fashion here. I 
do not mean French babies, but babies in the abstract. 
A baby is a good thing, a blessed thing. I cannot con- 
ceive what I should have done if I hadn't, once upon a 
time, been a baby. A baby is a well-spring, and the 
quantity of lacteal fluid, lumps of sugar, soothing syrups, 
paregoric, squills, squalls, walking the floor in your long- 
tailed night shirts, mother's loves, lovey-doveys, and 
square spanking that one of those well-springs will ab- 
sorb is astonishing to one who has not had a baby. I 
have had several ; at least, I own stock in several. 

Would I sell my experience, past, present or future, 
in babies? 

Not much. 

Therefore, I am glad babies are going to come into 
fashion. Just think of the new topics of conversation, 
when Mrs. Brown takes her little three-months up to see 
Mrs. Jones and her two-months, and the two Dear 
Creatures compare colics. The little cherubs will mollify 
conversation, and sympathy will take the place of 
severity. Instead of gossiping on poor Mrs. Cauliflow- 
er's unfortunate but innocent faux pas, the Dear Crea- 
tures will soothingly compare notes on the baby ques- 
tion and discuss the merits of quieting syrups and puff- 
boxes. And then there will be the baby reunions, 
when the great parlor will be filled with baby chairs, 
and in each chair will be a baby in blue ribbon and 
white muslin, and in each little rosebud of a mouth will 
be thrust a dimpled fist. How pleasant it will be to 
listen to the artless conversation. When Mrs. Jones' 
baby says "goo," Mrs. Brown's baby will answer 



Babies. 1 7 

"goo, goo," and Mrs. Thompson's baby, whose mother 
is very talkative, will ''goo" a steady stream for five 
minutes; and then, when one of the cherubs is affected 
to tears by the point of a pin, or an unusually sharp 
stroke of the colic, which by so many confiding young 
■mothers has been taken for an angel talking to the little 
one, how will they all be affected to tears and the room 
resound with the dear little trebles. 

But I must draw a veil over the picture. In the uni- 
versal rush which will ensue for babies and the compe- 
titive result which will inevitably follow between ward 
and ward and street and street, there must be discrimi- 
nation used. When Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. John- 
son sign articles of agreement as to an x number of ba- 
bies in X time, Miss Aurelia and Miss Celeste must re- 
member that, by the rules of the B. R., they are count- 
ed out. I would not advise all to adopt the fashion, 
but there are many, and there will be more, unless ^they 
adopt Swedenborg's notion of affinities, who can safely 
take up the new fashion. 

And I recommend all such to adopt it immediately. 
As I said before, I don't know what I should have done 
if I hadn't been a baby. 

June 8, 1807. 




THE CIRCUS. 




|T is safe to say that nine men out of ten — and 
the tenth man is to be sincerely pitied — look- 
ing back, find their starting point in a circus. 
Next to the maternal shoe, which hung in ferrorem over 
the Lares and Penates, and which will never fade from 
the memory, my most distant recollection is beneath 
the canvass. Was there ever such a funny man as the 
clown ? I hung upon his stale wit as Hamlet hung upon 
Yorick. Were there ever such angels as those ethereal, 
beautiful, gauzy, smiling women who rode round the 
ring — now, alas, bandy-legged, lath-armed, tinseled, 
painted, disconsolate looking creatures, whose whole 
world is within the narrow limits of the ring? 

Did Arabia produce such fiery steeds, brave in gaily 
caparisoned trappings — now, poor old hacks, full of the 
spirit of the tread-mill — not all the yells of rider, clown 
and ringmaster, not all the brutal lashings of whip and 
thong, can force beyond their customary gait? 

Were there ever such candies and cakes and pop corn 
as that boy peddled whom I used to envy? 

Name the sum I would not have given to have been 
the bugle man who blew "Silver Moon" so gorgeously! 

And then I passed from one sphere of Elysium to 
another when, after the circus, I went to the side-show 
and saw the fat woman, and the skeleton man, and the 
calf with three legs, and the dog with two heads, the 



The Cii'cus. 19 

man who swallowed the sword and the man who took 
the snake's head in his mouth. And I went home and 
dreamed that I was ring-master, gorgeous in silver lace, 
with a long whip which I snapped at the clown, and, 
rapture of raptures, did I not help the angels to mount 
their horses? Talk not of the realities of life by the side 
of that circus, which was an enchanted land ! 

As I look back to that circus, I see my first original 
sin or concatenation of sins. 

Am I not he who informed my parents that I was 
going to see another little boy? 

Am I not he who stole a watermelon from our neigh- 
bor's patch? 

Am I not he who took it to old Bliffkins, who lived 
under the hill, and sold it to him for a shilling? 

Am I not he who with the shilling walked two miles, 
and then found it cost a quarter to get into the circus? 
Was there ever such a monster as the man at the door, 
who wouldn't let me in? 

I have never known such griefs as my grief that day. 
I hung round the outside of that tent as sinners are sup- 
posed to hang round the walls of Heaven. I heard the 
music and the hip-hips and the cheers and the snaps of 
the whips, and in my desperation I tried to look under 
the canvass, but was detected in the act by the monster 
at the door, and obliged to fly for my life. I have never 
known a grief so poignant as that. 

I pity the man who has not sinned in his boyhood, all 
for a circus. He has missed one of the luxuries of life 
which can hardly find compensation in an aeon of 
virtue. 

June 15, 1867. 



BEFORE THE WEDDING. 




HAVE already intimated in these columns that 
Aurelia is about to be married. Young Pep- 
lum, who is so well known as the gentlemanly 
-'s dry goods store, and who is heir appa- 



clerk at — 

rent to a snug hundred thousand, when his uncle dies, 
is the fortunate man who will have the pleasure of sup- 
plying her with millinery hereafter, and of being known 

as the husband of Mrs. Aurelia . 

Aurelia, at present, is in a frightful crisis of dry 
goods, and is driving to the very verge of distraction a 
score of dress-makers, milliners and cloak-makers, who 
are sitting around the house like so many Patiences on 
monuments. Fractions of bridal dresses, traveling dress- 
es, morning wrappers, cloaks, basques and basquines, 
immaculate and mysterious white garments with the 
most spirituel ruffles and frills foaming over them, cob- 
webby handkerchiefs and articles in the sanctum sancto- 
rum of the toilet, the meaning of which I suspect but 
dare not mention — are all over the house from the gar- 
ret to the cellarage; on chairs, on tables, on beds, on 
the piano, on lounges, on everything. I had rather un- 
dertake to walk through an acre of eggs, without 
breaking one of them, than to go through the house 



Atirelia's Anxiety. 21 

without setting my No. 11 boot heel into some frail gos- 
samer of a dress, and rending its gauzy fabric and Au- 
relia's heart at the same time. 

All the expectations, the hopes, the responsibilities, 
the aims and ambitions of Aurelia's life, if not of all 
human lives, now depend on the difference of shade in 
two ribbons or the relative reflections in two different 
silks, on both of which she has set her heart. 

They are sweet pretty — but O dear ! 

She has wept bitter tears over the total depravity of a 
bias and the literally infernal unreliability of a sewing 
machine, which will skip stitches in crises of awful im- 
portance. Three long nights she lay awake, haunted 
with the dreadful suspicion that her shoemaker was an 
impostor, and that he had not given her the latest style 
of slipper-tie. 

How could she assume the grave responsibilities of 
married life, if her slipper-tie were not the very latest ? 

Of course she couldn't. 

She is thoroughly convinced that if anything should 
go wrong in the preparations for the ceremony, or in 
the ceremony itself, the world would cease its diurnal 
revolutions; there would be no further use for its axis; 
seed time and harvest would be alike immaterial to the 
farmer; ships and ledgers to the merchant; the anvil 
and loom to the mechanic; there would be nothing 
more worth living for ; her career might as well be end- 
ed, the curtain come down, the lights go out, and the 
audience go home, without stopping for the close of the 
play. 

I pitied the Dear Child, and so, yesterday, after she 
had consulted the matriage column of the Tribune, to 

8* 



22 Consolation. 

see if any other person in the city had undergone her 
tribulations, I invited her to my den, that I might ad- 
minister some consolation to her, wading in such deep 
waters. She gave the Patiences some parting in- 
junctions, and each of them, from their respective monu- 
ments, looked down with weary eyes and nodded ac- 
quiescence. 

She sat down by my Minerva, paying little heed, 
however, to those wise, solemn eyes which looked out 
from the marble with a sort of pity at her. I lighted 
my meerschaum, just commencing to be flecked with 
delicate amber streaks, and I said to her, as she 
listlessly pulled a bouquet to pieces, scattering the petals 
upon the floor, as if they were the ghosts of little dead 
hopes : 

My Dear Aurelia, I need not tell you that you are 
about to enter upon a very important phase of your life, 
which hitherto has been of about as much importance 
as your canary's ; that you are about to assume the re- 
sponsibility of knoAving a porter-house from a tender- 
loin, peas from beans, and the mysteries of soup and 
salad ; that you are about entering the arcana of the 
washboard,.. the mangle, and the sideboard; and that 
you are to fit yourself for the companionship of the 
young ladies who will stand to you in the relation of 
domestics : for all of which you will find a recompense 
and sweet solace in your husband's pocket-book. In 
view of these solemn responsibilities of the present, and 
small anxieties which may accrue in the hereafter, it is 
eminently proper that you sliould approach the altar 
with a certain degree of reverence — 

(At this point Minerva distinctly winked her left eye 



An Ant-Hill. 23 

at Aurelia, but Aurelia did not notice it, whereupon the 
Goddess resumed her wise look, and I continued ) : 

I am only afraid, my Dear Child, that in making all 
these preparations, you are rather making them for Mrs. 
Grundy than for yourself, against which mistake I would 
caution you for several reasons. 

It is not probable that the great world will care much 
for your marriage. 

(Aurelia astonished, and Minerva winking both eyes.) 

I presume to say that horse races, billiard and base- 
ball matches will take place just as they always have ; 
that Napoleon will quarrel with Bismarck after your 
marriage as he did before; that the Eastern Question 
will continue to trouble political philosophers, and that 
your neighbors will go on eating, drinking, driving, 
gossiping and pouring out the small beer of their lives 
much the same as they have always done, and that the 
world will continue to turn round, and that you and 
your husband and your rainbows, orange flowers, Cu- 
pids and moonbeams will go round with it, just as if 
you had never been married. 

My Dear Child, this world is nothing but an ant-hill, 
and we are quite insignificant ants, each toiling along 
with his or her little burden, and when one ant gets 
another to help carry the load, the other ants don't 
mind it much, but push on with their burdens. Some 
day we go out of sight into the alluvium of the hill, 
burden and all, and forget to come out again, but even 
then, strange to say, the other ants don't miss us or stop 
to look after us, but keep pushing on, this way and that, 
and running over each other, and quarrelling about 
burdens. Therefore, my dear, I would advise you to 



24 splurging. 

let Mrs. Grundy carry her burden and pay no attention 
to her. Take your meals regularly and your usual al- 
lowance of sleep. It will be better for your peace and 
your digestion. 

And again, my dear Aurelia, I am afraid you are go- 
ing to make a splurge. A splurge is a good thing if 
you can keep splurging. If, when you set off like a 
rocket, you can keep going like a rocket, brilliant and 
beautiful, it will be a very good thing to do. But it 
you start like a rocket, and come down like a poor, 
miserable stick, with a wad of burned pasteboard on the 
end of you, you had better never have been touched off, 
because everybody will say they knew it would be so, 
and you yourself will sit in ashes all your life, clothing 
yourself with sackcloth, and lamenting your silliness in 
trying to make a splurge. 

Now your future husband is making a comfortable 
living, and by the practice of ordinary economy you 
and he may get along very comfortably. In regard to 
your legacy there is no certainty. Your uncle's lungs 
and liver are much better than your husband's, and even 
if your husband should outlive him, there may be 
nothing left to give you, so that after spreading your 
choice dishes for your guests you may have to come 
down to potsherds yourself. Do not splurge, therefore, 
unless you are ready to keep up your splurge. Beware 
of going into the large end of the horn and coming out 
of the little end, for you will be very thin when you 
come out, and Mrs. Grundy will laugh at you. I think 
it is better, if there is any uncertainty about your pros- 
pects, to go in at the little end, and then when you 
come out at the large end, you can come out in style 



A Common Affair. ' 25 

and with plenty of room. But, under any and all cir- 
cumstances, splurging is dangerous, and in nine cases 
out of ten will land you, heels upwards, kicking at space. 
You, yourself, my dear, will remember that on one oc- 
casion, when you were a little late at church and had 
on that new hat, you tried to splurge up the aisle and 
sat down suddenly upon the floor, with the whole con- 
gregation looking at you. Just so will it be all through 
life. If you have a weak point about you — and, my 
Dear Child, you have many (here Minerva actually nod- 
ded assent) — a splurge will be sure to discover that 
point to the spectator. Therefore I would advise you 
and your husband to launch your craft very quietly. 
You will then have the right, when you can afford it, to 
do and be something in the world, and when your hus- 
band goes into the ant-hill out of sight, some other ant 
will tell in the papers, for the other ants to read, how 
he commenced poor but honest, and worked his way 
up, and some little ants with very large burdens will 
take courage thereat and ply their legs more vigorously 
than ever. 

In another respect it is well not to make a splurge. 
If you make a public wedding and issue a large number 
of invitations, astonishing as the event may seem to you, 
it will be quite a common affair to most of us. The 
young people will criticise you most unmercifully. If 
there is an orange flower awry upon your veil, if there is 
a bit of ribbon or lace out of gear, if your hair is not 
exactly a la mode, they will find it out. Your looks 
and responses also, my dear, will be canvassed by charm- 
ing young creatures, and as they weep such pearly tears 
of sorrow over your misfortunes, and are dying of envy 



26 ' Some Rules. 

that they haven't an opportunity of looking interesting, 
because they could do it so much prettier than you, 
they will mentally take a catalogue of all your adorn- 
ments and discuss them for many days to come. The 
old married people who come, I assure you, will do the 
operation much as they do their dinners. Bless you, 
they have seen weddings before, many a time, and if 
they have one interested thought about this ceremony, 
which you suppose all the world is looking at, it is that 
they did this sort of thing better in their day. Then in 
your list of invitations, when you make it general, there 
will always be the old lady who goes to funerals and 
weddings because she likes to, and thinks it her duty. 
She is equally solemn on both occasions, refers frequent- 
ly to this vale of tears, and can weep with a fluency only 
equalled by a water-spout. You will do well to keep on 
her good side, which you can do by feeding her well ; 
for in spite of the fact which she so frequently announ- 
ces, that this is a vale of tears, she can eat a square 
meal with a success only equalled by young Boosey, 
whom you will have to invite, and who will come only to 
gormandize on your cake and wine and grow eloquent 
over your Russe. It would be better for you, therefore, 
to avoid a large gathering, and still better to*1bake your 
party a family one. 

Again, I would urge upon you, my Dear Child, not to 
attempt to look interesting. By all means avoid this 
rock upon which young brides are apt to split. I have 
seen scores of brides go off the stocks and I have never 
seen one yet who tried to look interesting, who didn't 
resemble a wax figure in a hair store or a goose in a 
paddock. You had better look like yourself. Remem- 



Mutual Understanding. 27 

ber that you are a woman. Listen to the minister and 
answer his questions sensibly and not go off in a par- 
oxysm of smiles, quirks, simpers and pianissimo lisping, 
as if you were the ghost of a rose leaf, which you are 
not, my dear. 

Also, have a perfect understanding with your hus- 
band-to-be. You have been living on moonbeams long 
enough. Sink your romance sufficiently to get at reali- 
ties, and it will save you heartburns, headaches and red 
eyes hereafter. Your husband, who has a stomach like 
other men, will get sick of living on moonshine in an 
incredibly short space of time. He accomplished the 
purpose of moonshine, my Dear Child, when he got you, 
and he will immediately return to the more substantial 
things of the earth. And you yourself will be astonished 
how quickly the realities of married life will take the ro- 
mantic starch out of you, and at the suddenness with 
which you will tumble, (like the man who came down too 
soon to inquire the way to Norwich,) from your enchant- 
ed world to the commonplaces of beefsteak, baby- 
baskets and washboards. It will be best, therefore, for 
you to exactly understand each other, because one of 
you cannot live in the moon and the other on the earth. 

Lastly. I would solemnly caution you against making 
the mistake that you are the only woman in the world 
who ever got married. My dear Aurelia, singular as it 
may seem to you, thousands and millions have been 
married before you, and thousands and millions will be 
married after you, and thousands and millions will care 
as little for your marriage as you do for your grand- 
mother's. (Minerva at this point nodded assent so vig- 
orously that she lost her balance and fell at the feet of 



28 Cause of the Postponement. 

my Venus di Medici, and was exceedingly shocked at 
the latter.) 

I was about to conclude my morning talk with an im- 
pressive peroration on the duties, trials and pleasures ot 
wedded life, and rose to relight my pipe, when I found 
that Aurelia was fast asleep. 

I was saddened at the discovery, but I quietly slipped 
out and told the Patiences on the monuments of it, and 
they one and all rested, and this explains the reason why 
the work got behind-hand, and Aurelia had to postpone 
the wedding one day. 

June 23, 1867. 




THE WEDDING. 




jHE great event of the week has not been the 
Fourth of July, as is vulgarly supposed, but the 
marriage of Aurelia to young Peplum, the 
gentlemanly clerk at • 's dry goods store, heir appa- 
rent to ^100,000, etc. 

I regret to say that Aurelia paid no regard to the ad- 
vice I gave her two weeks ago. In spite of all my ef- 
forts to persuade her to the contrary, she persisted in the 
hallucination that she was the first woman who had ever 
been torn away from distracted parents and led, a gar- 
landed victim, to the matrimonial altar. I think she 
was disappointed that the heavens were not hung with 
white favors, and that deputations were not present from 
the various races of the globe, and that business was not 
suspended. The number of invitations was only limited 
by the capacity of the house. Everyone of the young 
ladies invited was a very dear friend, not to have invited 
whom would have given mortal offence, and sundered 
friendships, in many cases of several weeks' existence, 
without which life would have been a blank — Sahara 
without an oasis — Heaven without a star. 

M. Arsene Houssaye, rash man, says that woman is 
the fourth theologic virtue and the eighth mortal sin. 



30 The Wedding. 

Upon this standard it is safe to say there was present a 
frightful amount of theologic virtue and mortal sin. I 
am sure of the latter fact. 

The hour for the ceremony had been appointed at 6 
p. M. Deeply impressed as was Aurelia with the idea 
that Columbus, discovering the New World; Galileo, 
fixing the motion of the earth round the sun ; Newton, 
discovering the laws of gravitation, and Harvey, finding 
the circulation of the blood — were but every-day com- 
mon-places compared with this event, — she had, never- 
theless, found it impossible to convince the Directors of 
the Michigan Central Railroad of that fact. The result 
was that trains ran at the usual hour, and would not 
wait, even one little minute, and it was vulgarly neces- 
sary, therefore, to have the wedding promptly at six. 

After the wedding was over, I invited old Blobbs up 
to my den to smoke, and we compared notes on this oc- 
casion, and mutually arrived at this result: That the 
good old-fashioned custom of a large family wedding, 
celebrated in hospitable style, followed up with wit, so- 
ciality, games, and a dance, the guests departing at a 
seasonable time, well lined with capon and punch, trust- 
ing to Providence and instinct that the young couple 
would find their way through the night, somehow, to the 
breakfast table the next morning, the bride dressed in 
the rosiest of blushes, and the groom very plucky and 
defiant, each commencing the race in life from the 
starting point of home, was much more sensible than 
this modern custom of gathering together all their dear 
friends, hurrying through the ceremony, and then run- 
ning off a thousand miles, as if the couple had done 
something they were ashamed of. 



Fixing. 3 1 

And then we compared the comfort of home with a 
sleeping car: your own snugly furnished and beautifully 
adorned room, cosy, quiet, dreamy and mysterious, with 
the vulgar, rattling, smoking, baby-crying, enjoyed-in- 
common, dirty-counterpaned, cindery, head-smashing, 
waked-up-every-hour bunks of the sleeping car; the 
breakfast of cream and honey and strawberries, fragrant 
Mocha and snowy rolls, with the dirt, dust, cinders, 
smoke, tough beefsteaks and mahogany coffee of a sleep- 
ing car. 

^' De gustibus iioii est dispitandum,'''' said I. 

"Ditto," said Blobbs. 

From early morn until dewy eve, the dressmakers, 
mantau-makers, milliners, hair-dressers and chamber- 
maids had been laboring on Aurelia. They modelled 
her, shaped her, powdered her, painted her, twisted her, 
pulled her, laced her, unlaced her, fixed her, took her 
to pieces and put her together again, behind carefully 
locked doors, while that poor devil Peplum, in a seven- 
by-nine room, with a two-by-three looking glass, two 
brushes and a comb, went at himself with fear and 
trembling, and although he was more lavish than ever 
of Macassar and Day & Martin, and split three pairs of 
kids and looked very red in the face, still he looked 
like himself, which is more than I can say of Aurelia. 

In the meantime the guests were assembled, one hun- 
dred of whom were young ladies and all dear friends, 
looking very much like pinks in a parterre; fifty young 
gentlemen who looked as if they had something on their 
minds and were suspicious of the integrity of their cra- 
vats — (I know of nothing more terrible than to be in 
the company of very dear friends when you have a sus- 



32 In Position. 

picion of the integrity of your outer man) ; a handful of 
old people who resembled feathery dandelion-tufts in a 
field of red and white clover; and Rev. Fitz-Herbert 
Evelyn, the sweet young associate of old Dr. Homilec- 
tics, who does up the weddings, youthful funerals, eve- 
ning meetings, and morning calls, is sound on lunch, con- 
venient in doctrine, and orthodox in raiment. For a 
set sermon on the rationalistic errors in Transubstantia- 
tion, the old doctor can beat him out of sight, but he 
has given up weddings as he is no longer sweet, and has 
been known to have talked common sense on such occa- 
sions, which is as much out of place as honesty in a 
Legislature. Consequently, the young ladies prefer the 
sweet, young Fitz-Herbert, who would sleep uneasily 
should he find a rose leaf under him edge upward, who 
rushes through the ceremony daintily, with the tips of 
his fingers, and after having tied the young lambs to- 
gether with a thread, cooly dares anybody to put them 
asunder. 

When the bridal couple entered the room, they im- 
mediately became the foci of three hundred or more 
eyes. They had scarcely got into position, when one 
hundred noses were elevated just a trifle, from which I 
judged that Aurelia, although fearfully and wonderfully 
made, was not altogether a success to her dear young 
friends. One hundred upper lips curled up, and fifty 
elbows of dear friends nudged in concert the corsets of 
fifty other dear friends, at what I afterwards found to be 
a spot upon her veil, left by one of the bridesmaids who 
was addicted to chewing spruce gum. 

Aurelia commenced to look interesting, and, to my 
horror, so did young Peplum, and they succeeded ad- 



The Deed. 33 

mirably in looking like a young man and a young wo- 
man detected in the act of stealing green apples from a 
corner grocery. Sweet Mr. Evelyn stepped up, and 
after running his hand through his raven hair and pass- 
ing it over his marble brow once or twice, thereby set- 
ting off to more advantage that amethyst ring which 
Blanche Jessamine gave him at the last meeting of the 
Young Ladies' Aid Society, he commenced looking very 
saintly and talking very sweetly. 

After the customary promises, Fitz-Herbert began a 
beautiful exordium, feelingly alluding to the journey ot 
life ; touching upon the launching of the craft ; alluding 
to calm seas; solemnly describing the mutual partner- 
ship of joys and sorrows; mentioning cups of bliss, 
sprinkling roses and boldly deprecating thorns. And 
when he said, in a solemn but sweet tone of voice : *' My 
dear young friends, you are about to enter upon a path- 
way," etc., all the dear friends were visibly affected. 
One hundred lace handkerchiefs went up to two hun- 
dred eyes. The old maid who goes to all the weddings 
and funerals for lachrymal purposes went off like a 
waterspout. As she afterwards told me it did her a 
power of good, and that she hadn't enjoyed the blessing 
of tears so much since Podgers died. 

(Podgers was a distant relative of her's on her mo- 
ther's side, and was so confused at the time of his de- 
cease, that he forgot to mention her in his will.) 

Mrs. Carbuncle, the woman in red hair and blue 
Thibet, who went to see Booth in Othello, because she 
doted on the Irish drama, had her child with her, who 
had served his purpose thus far in supplying some of the 
rash young fellows present with significant jokes. The 
4 



34 Concluded. 

child, seeing all the rest of the company in a lachrymose 
state, also lifted up his voice and wept out of sympathy. 
Mrs. Carbuncle's efforts to quiet him only made matters 
worse, and the youthful Carbuncle, kicking and weep- 
ing, was carried off in disgrace to an upper chamber, 
where, for half an hour afterwards, he manifested his 
poignant grief, by refusing to be comforted, and bump- 
ing the back of his head against a cottage bedstead. 

Sweet Fitz-Herbert, who has a gift at weddings, but 
a keen appreciation of fees, was very brief in his cere- 
mony, much to young Boosey's delight, who was dying 
to get at the supper table, around which Biddy was 
hovering in transports of delight like a bee round a hol- 
lyhock, being engaged at the same time in an interne- 
cine war with some men and brethren who had invaded 
her domains, in which war she was assisted by all the 
Biddies of the neighborhood, whom she had smuggled 
in by the back entrance to see the tables. 

The ceremony having been concluded, congratula- 
tions were in order, when Mrs. Flamingo burst in, in a 
state of perspiration and general deshabille. For being 
just two minutes late, and for sleeping over on impor- 
tant occasions, that woman is a prodigy. In the natural 
history of society, she is the Great American Snail. If 
she ever dies, she will have to change her present habits, 
and in any event will sleep over when Gabriel blows his 
trumpet. If she had lived in the days of Noah, she 
would have been drowned within hailing distance of the 
ark. She is the woman who always comes late at the 
concerts and has to be waked by the door-keeper when 
he puts out the lights, and is always vigorous in pursuit 
of the last car of a railroad train. 



The Stipper. 35 

It is hardly necessary for me to describe the wedding 
supper : the cakes, crowned with sugar cherubs strad- 
dUng white roses and chasing golden butterflies among 
silver leaves; sugar Cupids, hovering on the brink of an 
ocean of Charlotte Russe ; the huge pyramid of small 
syllabubs, which a man and brother, losing his presence 
of mind in waiting upon young Boosey, upset in all 
directions ; the saucer of ice cream which another man, 
etc., upset upon Mrs. Carbuncle's head; the Heidseck 
which ruined Celeste's silk; the customary sentiment of 
sweet Fitz-Herbert, which I give entire: "Our dear 
young friends, who this night enter the pathway of life : 
May their cup of bliss always be full and their journey 
strewn with roses without a thorn. And if we never meet 
here, may we meet hereafter where they neither marry nor 
are given in marriage." Greatest of all, need I de- 
scribe how Boosey and the crying old maid commenced 
at one end of the table and ate and drank through to 
the other without a single skip, or how Boosey retired 
from the fray, confused in his mind and uncertain in his 
legs, after proposing as a sentiment : "Here's to Pep- 
lum and Mrs. Peplum — j-j-jolly good fe-fe-fe-fellows. 
Dr-dr-dr-drink hearty." 

The most astonishing event of the evening was the ut- 
ter indifference of the hackman, who took the bride and 
Mr. Peplum to the depot. He was not aware of the 
importance of the event, and even dared to growl up to 
the fifth trunk, and swear in a low tone of voice at the 
sixth and last — the four-story Saratoga, and in a satirical 
tone of voice asked if he should drive to the freight depot. 

That wretched man knew not that he carried the first 
woman ever married. 



36 D Envoi. 

The guests finally departed — Mr. and Mrs. Peplum to 
the uncertainties of the sleeping car; sweet Fitz-Herbert 
leaving a Night-Blooming Cereus odor of sanctity be- 
hind him ; the dear young friends ; the old dandelion 
tops; the old maid still weeping; the disgraced child; 
Boosey on his winding way; and Mrs. Flamingo, who 
was found asleep near the ruins of the supper table, 
when Biddy was putting out the lights. 

And I went to my den and lit my pipe and looked 
out of the window. The moon was still shining. The 
stars winked at me. A romantic young man was prac- 
tising " Oft in the Stilly Night" on a cracked trumpet. 
Terrence and Bridget were sitting up at the next gate. 
The wind blew. The leaves rustled. My pipe glowed. 
The world revolved. I existed. And yet Aurelia had 
been married that very night. 

If I have said little about Mr. Peplum, it is because 
Mr. Peplum seemed to have very little to do with it. 

July G, 1SG7. 




MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY. 




RE you a base-ballist ? If not, take my word 
and retire from the world. 
You are a nullity, a nothing, a o. 

The cholera of 1866 is amqng us, but it has assumed 
the base-ball type. It is malignant, zymotic and infec- 
tious. Its results are not so fatal as last year, and man- 
ifest themselves in the shape of disjointed fingers, lame 
legs, discolored noses, and walking sticks. 

The disease is prevalent among all classes. Editors, 
actors, aldermen, clerks, lumbermen, commission men, 
butchers, book-sellers, doctors and undertakers have it, 
and many of them have it bad. 

Even the tailors tried to make up a chib, but as they 
found it took eighty-one men to make up a nine they 
gave it up. 

The only class not yet represented is the clerical. 

More's the pity. 

They would derive many advantages from the game. 
You see they would learn the value of the short stop. 
That is an important point on warm Sundays. They 
would also learn to hit hard. There are lots of old sin- 
ners who need to be hit that way. This continual pelt- 
ing away with little theological pop-guns at old sinners 
whose epidermis is as thick as an elephant's, is of no con- 



38 The Devil. 

sequence whatever. The shot rattle off like hailstones 
from a roof. They must learn to hit hard — hit so it will 
hurt — hit right between the eyes — fetch their man down, 
and rather than take such another theological bombshell, 
he will reconstruct. 

There isn't a minister in this city who wouldn't preach 
better next Sunday for a square game of base ball. This 
Christianity of the soft, flaccid, womanish, alabaster, 
die-away muscle kind, is pretty, but it isn't worth a cent 
in a stand-up fight with the Devil. 

The Devil is not only a hard hitter with the bat, but 
he is a quick fielder, and he will pick a soul right off the 
bat of one of these soft muscle men while S. M. is wast- 
ing his strength on the air. He has another advantage 
over our clergymen. Most of them are confined to one 
base. The Devil plays on all the bases at once, and he 
can take the hottest kind of a ball without winking. Our 
ministers ought to get so they can do the same thing. 

Melancthon was one of the soft muscle kind. He was 
gentle, sweet, amiable, gracious, and all that, but if he 
had been compelled to carry the Reformation on his 
shoulders, he never would have left his home base. 
While old Luther, a man of iron muscle, a hard hitter 
and a hard talker, who keeled the Devil over with his 
inkstand, and kicked Popes and Popes' theses, bulls and 
fulmina to the winds, made home runs every time, and 
left a clean score for the Reformation. 

A great many of our ministers have bones — some, 
rather dry bones — nerves, sinews and muscles, just as an 
infant has, but they want development. They need blood 
which goes bounding through the veins and arteries, and 
tingles to the finger tips. Their sinews must stiffen up. 



Ministerial Nines. 39 

their nerves toughen and their muscles harden. This 
process can be obtained by base baU. It will settle their 
stomachs and livers, and when these are settled, their 
brains will be clear. They won't have to travel to cure 
the bronchitis, and won't be so peevish over good sister 
Thompson, who needs a great deal of consolation, owing 
to her nervous system. 

Now, I would like to see two ministerial nines in the 
field. Robert Collyer at the bat would be a splendid 
hitter, and would send the Liberal ball hot to Brother 
Hatfield, on the short stop, and I would stake all my 
money that he couldn't make it so hot that Brother H. 
wouldn't stop it. These two clergymen wouldn't need 
to practice much, because they represent my idea of 
muscular Christians. Whenever they hit, they hit hard, 
and I pity the soft-muscled parson that gets into a con- 
troversy with either of them. But then they would get 
all the rest of the nines into good trim and harden up 
the muscles of Dr. Ryder and Robert Laird Collier, 
Father Butler, Dr. Patton, and Revs. Everts and Patter- 
son, and the rest. To be sure, the clerical fingers would 
sting, and the clerical legs would be stiff, and the cleri- 
cal backs would ache for a few days, but it would take 
all the headaches and dizziness, and dyspepsia and liver 
complaints, and heartburns out of the system. Their 
inner men would be refreshed, and their outer men re- 
generated, and they would go into their pulpits with 
firmer step, and their sermons would be full of blood 
and muscle, and they would kick the old musty tomes 
on one side and preach right out of their consciousness and 
hearts, man to man, and all would get their salaries in- 
creased and a month's vacation to go to the seaside. 



40 On Hard Hitting, 

I tell you, my brethren, in this city of Chicago, the 
Devil is getting the upper hand, and you must go in on 
your muscle. Get your backs up. Stiffen your muscles 
and then hit like a sledge-hammer. If old Croesus, in 
your congregation, is a whiskey-seller, don't be afraid 
of him. Hit him on the head so it will hurt. If Free- 
on-Board is a professional grain gambler, hit him on the 
head. If old Skinflint acts dirtily with his tenants, tell 
him he is a miserable old devil. Don't be afraid of 
him. He will like you all the better for it. If he won't 
get down on his knees by fair talking, take hold of his 
coat-collar and put him upon his knees. 

August 17, 1869. 







TII£ J? O ST 07V GIRL. 




jHE Boston girl, necessarily, was born in Bos- 
ton. Necessarily, also, her ancestors, and she 
can trace back her lineage to that Thankful 
Osgood, who came over in 1640, and owned the cow 
that laid out the streets of Boston. The wolf that 
suckled Romulus was held in no more respect by the 
Latins than is the bronzed image of that cow, cast by 
Mr. Ball, the sculptor, upon a commission from her 
father, a solid man, who lives on Beacon street, in a 
brown stone front with two ''bow" windows and a brass 
knocker. 

The ambition of every Boston girl is to live in a 
brown stone front with two "bow" windows and a brass 
knocker, before she dies. Having accomplished that, 
and attended a course of medical lectures, she is ready to 
depart in peace, for after that, all is vanity. 

There are three episodes in the life of every Bos- 
ton girl, viz., the Frog Pond, the Natural History 
Rooms, and the Fraternity Lectures. In her infancy, 
if so majestic a creature ever had an infancy, she sailed 
small boats on the Frog Pond, and was several times 
rescued from drowning in its depths, by the same po- 
liceman, who to-day wanders along its stone coping, 
watching the reflection of his star in the water, as he did 



42 The Boston GirL 

a quarter of a century ago. She visits the pond daily 
on lier way to the Natural History Rooms, where she 
inspects with diurnal increase of solicitude the bones of 
the megatherium and the nondescript fceti of human and 
animal births, preserved in Boston bottles, filled with 
Boston spirits. 

But the series of Fraternity Lectures is the great fact 
of the Boston girl's life. She dotes on Phillips, idolizes 
Weiss' social problems, goes into a fine frenzy over 
Emerson's transcendentalism, and worships Gail Hamil- 
ton and her airy nothings. 

The Boston girl is of medium height, with a pale, in- 
tellectual face, light hair, blue eyes, wears eye-glasses, 
squints a little, rather dcsliabille in dress, slight traces of 
ink on her second finger, blue as to her hose and large 
as to her feet. Of physical beauty she is no boaster, but 
of intellectual she is the paragon of animals. Gather a 
dandelion by the roadside, she will only recognize it as 
Leontodon taraxacum, and discourse to you learnedly of 
fructification by winged seeds. She will describe to you 
the relative voicings of the organs of Boston and the size 
of the stops in the Big one. She will analyze the differ- 
ence in Beethoven's and Mendelssohn's treatment of an 
allegro con moto. She will learnedly point out to you 
the theological differences in the conservative and radi- 
cal schools of Unitarianism, and she has her views on 
the rights of woman, including her sphere and mission. 
But I doubt whether the beauty of the flower, the essence 
of music, the sublimity of Beethoven and Mendelssohn, 
or the inspiration of theology, ever find their way into 
her science-laden skull, or whether her spectacled eyes 
ever see the way to the core of nature and art. 



The Boston Girl, 43 

The Boston girl is a shell. She never ripens into a 
matured flesh and blood woman. She is cold, hard, dry 
and juiceless. Gail Hamilton is a type of the Boston 
girl at maturity. Abby Kelly Foster was a type of the 
Boston girl gone to seed. If Gail Hamilton lives as long 
as did Abby, she will carry a blue cotton umbrella, wear 
a Lowell calico, and make speeches on the wrongs of 
woman and the abuses of the Tyrant Man. If the Bos- 
ton girl ever marries, she gives birth to a dictionary, or 
to a melancholy young intellect, who is fed exclusively 
on vegetables, at the age of six has mastered logarithms 
and zoology, is well up in the carboniferous and fossil- 
iferous periods, falls into the Frog Pond a few times, 
dies when he is eight years of age, and sleeps beneath a 
learned epitaph and the Leontodon taraxacum. 

September 7, 1867. 




THE DEAD. 




sr^AS a live man any rights which a dead man is 
bound to respect? 
I ask this question with due consideration for 
the feelings of a dead man. I know it is an unpleasant 
thing to be a dead man. There are no corner-lots, no 
operas, no new novels, no latest styles, no duck-shoot- 
ing, no sensations on the other bank of the Styx. 

I never appreciated that poet who would not live al- 
ways. I would. 

Neither that other poet who wanted to die in the 
summer time. I am so little particular about the time, 
as to prefer not to to die at any time. 

Neither those gushing young women who pine for a 
willow tree, with a nightingale "into it," at the head- 
board, and trim daisies at the foot-board. 

My sepulchro -botanical yearnings are overpowered by 
a very strong friendship for this superb old world. 

Which reminds me to again ask the question : Has a 
live man any rights which a dead man is bound to re- 
spect ? 

And this suggests, first, Tombstones. 

I am prepared to make a wager with any responsible 
party that in a match for the championship of lying, a 
tombstone would beat Ananias with Sapphira thrown 



Tombstones. 45 

in, and will give odds. Hie jacet is literally true, and 
about the only true thing the majority of tombstones say. 
If the ghosts of the late deceased — who are always emi- 
nent — are permitted to stroll about cemeteries at their 
leisure, their astonishment at reading their epitaphs must 
be of the most supernatural character. 

A miser, whose small soul in his earthly life could not 
have been found with a microscope, is astonished to dis- 
cover that he was a liberal-hearted man and a benefac- 
tor, with distant allusions to the possibility of his having 
been an angel in disguise. 

A man who went through the world without the re- 
sponsibility of a single moral principle under his vest, 
suddenly finds that he was possessed of all the cardinal 
virtues, and is written down on cool marble as an ex- 
emplar for the rising generation. 

A woman who, in the earthly tabernacle, was the Un- 
gual scourge of her neighborhood, discovers that she 
was the loveliest of her sex, and is now an angel with 
the handsomest wings to be found in the whole ornitho- 
logical tribe of the upper air. 

A man whose highest ambition was to go through life 
quietly, doing as much good as he could for his fellows, 
and to go out of life like a gentleman, finds himself 
kicking up posthumous dust under a huge monument ol 
the most elaborate description, gaudy with gilding, 
wreaths, chaplets, urns, torches and flowers. 

Considering the number of nuisances among the liv- 
ing, the quantity of angels and cherubs in every grave- 
yard is appalling, and it becomes a question worthy of 
consideration by the Academy of Sciences — the ulti- 
mate destination of the sinners and poor devils. All 



46 Funeral Fashions. 

known grave yards are devoted exclusively to saints. In 
what igtiota terra rest the bones of the sinners? 

Now, I submit that a live man has some rights which 
a tombstone is bound to respect, and that when old 
Sniffles, who swindled me unmercifully, the other day, 
without any compunction, shuffles off his miserable 
coil, his tombstone shall not tell me he was a pink of 
honesty. 

And again, are we not overdoing the thing in regard 
to funerals ? I have already shown in these letters that 
one can hardly afford to die now-a-days, owing to the 
expense. This expense grows out of the fact that we 
are letting fashion act as mistress of ceremonies on these 
occasions. It is not enough that fashion has made asses 
of us, and tricked us out with her fantastic nonsense all 
our lives, but, even after the curtain has fallen, the 
lights are turned off, the audience have gone home, and 
the house is shut up, fashion still persists in hanging its 
gewgaws upon the outside walls. 

Accordingly, every respectable deceased must be 
buried in a casket — a pretty casket of the most approved 
shape, and the costlier the material, the better. The 
nails must be silver-headed to be au fait, and the han- 
dles classic in design and silver beyond suspicion. The 
inside must correspond with the outside, and, after the 
late deceased is laid out, it is then eminently proper to 
smother him or her with flowers, crosses, wreaths, 
anchors and other emblematic designs. The climax 
will be capped if the deceased is clad in the latest style 
of the hcau nionde, and carries with him or her into the 
long sleep, the exact cut or style of garment in which 
death overtook him or her. 



Mourning. 47 

I am not inveighing against respect to the dead. I 
believe that nothing is so appropriate for a dead child 
as flowers, nothing so typical of beauty and purity, no- 
thing which so becomes the young life, frail as the 
flowers themselves. I only object to the frivolous, fool- 
ish, indecorous displays which fashion compels the sur- 
vivors to make. If a man has lived through life like a 
gentleman, let him be buried like a gentleman, without 
fashion's tricking-out. I submit that when a man or 
woman has got through with life, he or she has got 
through with fashion, and that it is the height of folly 
for friends of the family to allow officious tradesmen the 
opportunity of displaying their fashionable wares, on an 
occasion when simplicity and solemnity are most 
befitting. 

Which brings me to another point in considering 
whether a live man has any rights a dead man is bound 
to respect. And that point is — Mourning. 

On general principles, I claim that we have no right 
to advertise our griefs to the world by mourning appar- 
el. Of all griefs, those of death should be the most 
delicate, the most personal. If we must do it at all, I 
think the Chinese custom of wearing white is the most 
sensible. Why must we go in sables and obtrude our 
crape into the blessed light of the sun, and our black 
sorrow into the eyes of the world, when all is light 
where our friend has gone? 

But this custom could be endured if fashion had not 
seized it. Fashion regulates our sorrow, measures our 
grief, and bounds our mourning within prescribed limits. 
Heartfelt grief goes in deep black. Good average grief 
in half black. Mitigated grief contents itself in a black- 



48 Mourning. 

bordered handkerchief, and advertises itself to cor- 
respondents in a black-bordered envelope. Hopeful 
grief will get along with a jet pin, and for just the small- 
est amount of grief in the world, a dark figure in the 
dress, and a week's abstinence from the opera will 
do ; while for the tribe of relatives whom you never saw 
and never wanted to see, any milliner or tailor can regu- 
late your grief with a yardstick or hat-body. 

If I were a blessed, viewless spirit, and found a friend 
of mine indulging in mitigated grief for me with hand- 
kerchief edging, I would indulge in spiritual manifesta- 
tions which would put the Fox sisters to their trumps. 

In the name of our common humanity, do we not 
play pranks enough with the living to let the dead rest? 
Why vex their memories with the foolery of fashion? 
Why make ourselves walking sign-boards, announcing 
to the world, that does not care a whit about it, that we 
are in this or that stage of grief? 

With our fashionable mourning, we are putting a libel 
on immortality, and lowering to the vulgar level of 
common notoriety what should be most sacred and 
strictly private. 

And now I suppose that, in answer to all this, some- 
body will fling at me that stupid old apothegm — De 
mortuis nil nisi honum. It is time that maxim was ex- 
ploded, or, at least, dissected, so that it may have 
proper application. A, who has been a rascal all his 
life, dies, and immediately we are all so tender of his 
reputation that we very nearly canonize him. As soon 
as a man dies, it is the universal outcry to let him rest. 
I do not see the slightest danger of disturbing his rest 
by anything we can say or do. He will probably lie 



The Living and the Dead, 49 

quite as still as if we are silent. It is not probable that 
he will grow indignant if we tell the exact truth about 
him, or exhibit any large amount of gratification over 
our eulogies. In this upper world it is quite a common 
thing for us to assail our dear friends as soon as their 
coat-tails are over our thresholds, when this backbiting 
may be cruelly unjust, and there are some of us who re- 
quire a very light stock of material to do a thriving 
business in slander. We pursue our friends with defa- 
mation while living, and while it will injure them, but 
when dead and past all injury, we grow suddenly reti- 
cent and commence the rather ungracious task of eulo- 
gy, and we usually outdo ourselves in the latter direc- 
tion. Let equal justice be done. Hold up the dead 
man's virtues to emulation, and his vices to abhorrence. 
He is quite beyond any harm we can do him, and if we 
have any tenderness to bestow on reputation, let us -be- 
stow it on the Uving. 

October 26, 1807. 




OUR THANKSGIVING. 




E had just got up from dinner table on Thanks- 
giving Day and retired to the parlor to chat 
— Celeste and Boosey, Aurelia and her husband 
and infant, Mignon and Blanche, Old Blobbs and Mrs. 
Blobbs and myself. 

We were all very thankful, although in divers ways. 
Boosey was thankful that he had had enough to eat, and 
that Celeste had got out of the Sorosis; while Celeste 
was thankful that Boosey had got through the dinner 
safely and soberly, and had brought her home a new 
hat the night before. Aurelia and Mr. Peplum were 
thankful for a small stranger, who dropped in upon them 
a few weeks since, spoken of above as the infant, and 
commonly reputed in our set to be the handsomest and 
smartest baby that has had the bad luck to be born into 
this world of fleeting show. Mignon was thankful that 
in these silent days of the year, there is so much beauty 
left, and Blanche was as thankful as a bobolink on a 
spray for all good things. Old Blobbs was thankful 
Mrs. Blobbs had omitted her customary morning lec- 
ture, and Mrs. Blobl)s was thankful that Old Blobbs had 
managed to get through his dinner without saying any 
disagreeable things. 



Turkey and Gratitude. 51 

As for myself, I was thankful that I was not obliged 
to be thankful again for a year. It is hard upon a man 
to be thankful on the basis of turkey in various culinary 
stages. I have not the slightest doubt one can be thank- 
ful to Divine Providence, Who has vouchsafed, etc., 
from the depths of his stomach, and can measure his 
gratitude by the pile of bones on his platter, but it in- 
volves dyspeptic possibilities which are fearful to con- 
template, and in point of thankfulness leaves a man no- 
where in comparison with a hog. 

I must acknowledge, further, that it is difficult for me 
to see the connection between bountiful harvests, and let 
us have peace, and the mastication of turkey. Gentle- 
men may cry peace, peace, but there is no peace after a 
Thanksgiving dinner. One might eat a bald eagle and 
grow patriotic, or a goose and obtain wisdom; but why 
the turkey should be singled out as the emblem of grat- 
itude, and why we should be called upon to express that 
gratitude by filling ourselves to the brim with the self- 
conceited coxcomb of the barn-yard, passes my compre- 
hension. It seems to me that we mistake gluttony for 
gratitude, and that in the immensity of our gratitude we 
are killing off turkeys at a rate which must be highly 
unsatisfactory to the gobblers, who are most interested 
in the matter. If we are to be thankful by wholesale 
in this manner on Thanksgiving, why not carry the 
same principle into our retail gratitude ? For instance, 
if Potter Palmer should come to me and say : "My 
dear boy, I have no further use for that shanty on the 
corner of State and Washington streets; take it," I 
might go at once and eat an oyster stew as a token of 
my gratitude, and if he should throw in that man and a 



52 In the Parlor. 

brother with the horizontal coat-tails, I might go one 
better also, and eat half a dozen raw. When Blanche 
sends Mignon a little token of love and esteem, Mignon 
might eat a Charlotte Russe as a proof of her gratitude, 
and range from a Russe up to a moderate lunch, ac- 
cording to the value of the gift. Gifts of pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs could be paid for by eating a pickle, embroid- 
eries in Berlin wool might range as high as a chicken 
wing, a volume of Tupper be atoned for by a boiled 
onion ; while, to express my thanks for a corner lot with 
a full furnished house on it, I would risk a moderately- 
filled dish of pork and cabbage. 

I haven't much confidence in that gratitude which 
strikes to a man's stomach, or that sense of thankful- 
ness which can only be expressed via the stomach. 

This was not what we talked about when we got into 
the parlor, but we undoubtedly should have discussed 
this topic had not Old Blobbs suddenly broken out on 
his favorite theory that the world was wrong side up. 
He does not believe in the present arrangement of 
things at all, and I sometimes think he is more than half 
right. Aurelia, Mr. Peplum and the little one were in 
a corner together, making a very cozy-looking trio ; Ce- 
leste and Boosey were just about to commence a game of 
backgammon ; Blanche was at the piano, listlessly run- 
ning her white fingers over the keys, as if she were try- 
ing to recall some old melody which had been lost 
among them in departed days; Mignon sat in the win- 
do\v just under the parlor ivy, which seemed to be try- 
ing to reach down to her with its graceful curves as to 
something akin to it in grace and beauty, when Old 
Blobbs suddenly broke out: "If I had the management 



A Change Wanted. 53 

of this world, things would change places. Nothing is 
in its right place." 

"And how would you change them, my dear 
Blobbs?" said I. 

" Change them !" said he. " If I could arrange men 
and things as they ought to be, you would see some 
very poor men living in very handsome houses, and 
some very rich men uncertain where they would get 
their next meal. You would see some parishioners in 
the pulpit and some preachers in the pews. You would 
see some car horses on the front platform and some 
drivers harnessed to the pole. You would see some men 
running down the street with tin kettles tied to their 
tails, and some dogs looking on approvingly. You 
would see my Lady So-and-So, who can go to the opera 
every night quite brave in her laces, and diamonds, and 
head-gear, with no more comprehension of, or care for, 
what is going on than a cow has of true and undefiled 
religion, change place with some poor soul to whom 
music comes full of consolation, and rest, and sympa- 
thy, and who cannot go at all. Yes, sir," said Old 
Blobbs, reddening with rage, " the whole world is wrong, 
all wrong. Incompetence stands in the shoes of compe- 
tence. The weak go to the wall. Dishonesty comes 
out ahead. Brass passes for gold, and tin for silver. 
One paltry dollar will go further and make more knees 
bend than all the concentrated honesty and decency of 
the world since Adam delved and Eve spun. Vive la 
humbug! The kettles and pots go swimming down the 
stream because they are empty. A piece of pure, solid 
metal, no matter how small, goes to the bottom." 

"But," said I, "the world keeps turning round, and 
a* 



54 Coming Uppennost. 

some day the right must come uppermost." 

Blobbs admitted that, but added: "What is the use 
of a man's coming uppermost a century or two after he 
is dead, when there is nothing left of him but a bone 
here and there, and, perhaps, nothing but a handful of 
dirt, to enjoy the sensation? Why not have the world 
so arranged that a decent man may, now and then, see 
some inducement to continue decent, and that real merit 
may find its recompense without being obliged to attain 
it through quackery, or enjoy it as a blessed ghost, two 
or three hundred years from now?" 

And all the time Blobbs was delivering his little 
speech, Blanche was still hunting for the lost melody on 
the keys, and the ivy was still trying to put its pretty 
green arms around Mignon's neck, and Celeste was 
throwing double-sixes with Boosey, and Aurelia was 
playing with that wonderful baby. 

November 28, 1868. 




MRS. GRUNDY. 




ET me whisper in your ear and tell you that 
Mrs. Grundy is a humbug. I think it would 
be the most blessed thing that could happen 
in this vale of tears if Mrs. Grundy should die. What 
a relief it would be to all of us ! Existence would be a 
boon instead of a bore. 

While Mrs. Grundy lives, every man and woman is 
an arrant hypocrite. While that fearful woman stands 
looking at us, every man and woman is an arrant 
coward. We flatter ourselves, or attempt to flatter our- 
selves — for there is not a man or woman who really be- 
lieves it — that we are saying and doing things from princi- 
ple, when in reality we are saying and doing them because 
Mrs. Grundy, in the shape of our next door neighbor, 
is looking at us and talking about us. You and I go to 
church and sit through services which may be the es- 
sence of stupidity, and we put on serious faces, and sit 
very primly, and regard our mortal enemy in the next 
slip with a lenient face, and pretend to listen to Dr. 
Creamcheese's commonplaces, and go out very solemnly 
• — and all because Mrs. Grundy is looking at us from 
every direction, and when we get home, out of Mrs. 
Grundy's sight, we are ourselves again. We go through 



56 Mrs. Grimdy. 

the formalities of a fast, and rigidly abstain from the 
good things while Mrs. Grundy's eyes are upon us, but 
the moment they are removed, we go into the larder 
and indulge in the best it affords. Celeste meets with 
another Dear Creature and lavishes all her affections 
upon her, when she does not care a snap of her pretty 
little finger about her, merely because Mrs. Grundy is 
looking at her. We are all of us, every day of our lives, 
going through with tedious conventionalities, which we 
know are conventionalities, which we do not believe in, 
merely because that woman Grundy is looking at us. 
She makes us hypocrites in every function of life. 
Thackeray struck Mrs. Grundy a blow in the face when 
he drew with his satirical and powerful pencil Louis XI. 
in his royal robes and Louis XL iwpuris naturalibus. 
In one picture we saw Louis XL in the light of Mrs. 
Grundy. In the other we saw him as himself. We 
wear a double suit ; one which we know is a lie, for the 
world ; the other, which we know is the truth, for our- 
selves. 

The world will get very near to the millenium when 
Mrs. Grundy dies. Until that time the lion and the 
lamb will not lie down together. If they do, the lion 
will try to convince himself that he is a lamb, although 
he is aching to breakfast on him, and the lamb will try 
to convince himself he is a lion. 

November 30, 1867. 



BEHIND THE SCENES. 




O few people have any definite idea of the stage 
behind the scenes, or of the little busy world 
that congregates there nightly, in the produc- 
tion of a great spectacle like "Undine," requiring all the 
resources of music, scenery, the drama and the ballet, 
that, a few evenings since, I conceived it to be my duty 
to expose myself to demoralization for the public good. 

The great public in front of the curtain only see the 
beautiful effects and the smooth movements, with no 
idea of the powers that are in exercise and the hidden 
springs that set at work all this great machinery. I 
shall not attempt to expose these secrets, but at the 
same time hope to give you some conception of life on 
the stage. 

Upon expressing my wish to the management to be 
demoralized for this laudable purpose, they gave me 
their hearty approval, and on Tuesday night, at half- 
past seven, I bade good-bye for a brief evening to the 
great world outside, and passed within the realms of ro- 
mance, clad in double-proof mail of morality, invul- 
nerable to the combined attacks of naiads, coryphees 
and Amazons. 

Has chaos come again ? Will order ever come out of 



58 The Stage. 

this wilderness of scenes, ropes, weights, pulleys, calci- 
um burners, step ladders, gauze waters, tinseled cars, 
demon masks, gas tubes, sceptres, levers, crowns, ec- 
centric iron rods, goblets, the fabulous Rhine treasures, 
tables, lounges, gongs and pistols? What secret charm 
is to resolve all these into their proper places and make 
them fill their parts in the production of grace and 
beauty? 

There are few people visible on the stage. Two or 
three Amazons are sitting on the banquet-table, discus- 
sing a question in political economy, as to the relative 
profit of running sewing-machines and making warlike 
marches under the Rhine. Two demons are engaged in 
a friendly game of euchre on the Lurlei Berg, for the 
stage discipline has not yet commenced. Undoubtedly, 
after they have accomplished their unearthly mission,' 
and the audience goes home, one of these demons will 
enjoy stewed oysters and ale in the upper world at the 
expense of the other. A coryphee is testing her pretty 
little toes in Sir Hubert's skiff. The seneschal and a 
scene-shifter are rehearsing Macbeth in the triumphal 
car which is shortly to ascend to Heaven with Sir Hu- 
bert and Undine. There is, as yet, little life on the 
stage, but it is very busy below in the dressing-rooms. 
The last stitches are being made, the last touches of 
rouge — for even the immortals use the same color that 
flushes the cheeks of Aurelia and Celeste — are being put 
on. Sir Hubert is cursing his refractory red tights. 
Undine is in despair over the loss of her crown, which 
she will find on the stage in the possession of an Amazon, 
who is strutting the boards for a brief minute as the 
Water Queen. Kuhleborn is arraying himself in his 



The Ballet. 59 

spotted mail, and the large green-room is swarming with 
naiads, fays and elves. The bell tinkles for the orches- 
tra. The call-boy rushes down the stairs and cries "All 
up and dressed for the first act." His voice finds an 
echo above in the prompter, who shouts "Clear the 
stage." How that stage was cleared still remains a 
mystery to me. All the disjecta mei?ibra are in place. 
Outside you hear the overture, and now and then the 
buzz of the audience; and an inquisitive coryphee, who 
has cautiously pulled the curtain a trifle aside, informs 
me that it is a splendid house. The prompter is at the 
first entrance. The gas man is at the wheels. The 
property man is everywhere. The scene-shifters are in 
the wings. Way up in the flies, in a wilderness of ropes, 
men are taking their places. The calcium men are 
arranging their reflectors, which will soon flood the 
stage with their powerful, rich light. The trap men are 
at their stations. The banquet scene is set. Hubert, 
Baptiste, the Pilgrim and the Knights are in the narrow 
space between it and the curtain. 

The Water Lily Ballet are in the wings on both sides, 
rattling away in French and German, standing upon 
their toes, stretching their limbs and preparing themselves 
for the dance. Westmael will have a solo, but she looks 
dejected, faint and spiritless, and a racking cough tells 
a sad story of the toil and weariness and excitement of 
the ballet. She is sick to-night. Another leans her 
head against a side-scene totally unmindful of what is 
going on in the physical pain she is suffering. Still 
others look weary and sad-eyed, while some are merry 
and voluble. But the great audience will know nothing 
of the aches and pains, the weariness and suffering. 



6o The Curtain Rises, 

The strong will, the excitement and the rivalry will hide 
all this behind the temporary smile and the coquetry and 
fascinations of the dance. The ballet-master is hopping 
about from wing to wing with the proverbial Gallic 
sprightliness, which will, before the evening is over, 
change to utter distraction and tearing of hair at the 
possibility of z.faux pas in the ballet or the total de- 
pravity of some leading instruments in the orchestra, 
which will be tearing a rhythm to tatters. 

The orchestral prelude ceases. The stage manager 
casts his quick eye over the stage and gives the word. 
The gas man turns on the light. The bell tinkles and 
the curtain rises. While the banquet scene is progress- 
ing, the frightful declivity of the Lurlei Berg goes into 
position, and the gauzy waters of the Rhine are set, 
across which the moon is sending a tinsel shimmer. 

Undine hurries through the wing and mounts to the 
dizzy height of the Lurlei Berg, in the meantime hold- 
ing an animated conversation with the young man be- 
low, who will gallantly help her down the sloat, below 
the blue waters of the Rhine, to the Stalactite Cave, 
which a score of busy hands are already preparing for 
her reception, A young man in the opposite wing is 
preparing to play the invisible boatman for Sir Hubert 
and Baptiste, while I quietly go to the bottom of the 
Rhine by the down-stairs route, and anticipate the ar- 
rival of the trio, who do not express any astonishment 
whatever at finding me in the Naiad's home, but con- 
verse with each other very much in the strain of ordina- 
ry mortals. 

In the meantime, overhead, the Stalactite Cave is set, 
and I hear the feet of the ballet dancers skimming over 



The Dance. 6i 

the floor. I get into the outskirts of the Cave by means 
of the stairs again, meeting a mortal on the way, eating 
a substantial Spitzenberg, and that Nemesis, the call- 
boy, in search of some of the Immortals, to find the 
Water Lily Ballet in full operation. There are no signs 
of weariness or dejection now. Every face is full of ex- 
pression. Every limb is posed in elegance. There is 
pleasure for pain ; smiles for dejection ; fascination for 
weariness; coquetry for listlessness ; and the Westmael, 
who looked so sad and weary, is flashing across the stage 
like a will o' the wisp, compelling, with her wonderful 
steps upon her toes, her pirouettes and postures, round 
upon round of applause from the audience, which comes 
to me behind the scenes like the pattering of rain upon 
the shingles, what time her rival, Venturola, already 
dressed for her solo in the Fish Ballet of the next act, 
is standing near me, closely scrutinizing, with her keen 
black eyes and nervous manner, every step of her great 
rival. Westmael comes off, panting like a deer in the 
chase. All the smiles and fascinations have gone, and 
in their place the weariness and sadness return to her 
face, and even Venturola regards her with pity, and the 
other dancers speak to her in low tones. She passes 
slowly, almost feebly, to her dressing-room, dropping 
the bouquet upon the floor which a frantic young man in 
front, with crimson face, has tossed to her. 

Will it comfort that frantic young man to know that 
an Amazon picks up the emblem of his devotion at the 
shrine of Terpsichore, and that she will probably con- 
vey it to her home on Archer Avenue, where it will 
waste its sweetness on the desert air? I would not ruth- 
lessly turn iconoclast to his aspirations by intimating 



62 EntP Acte. 

that all his bouquets have gone to Amazonian abodes on 
that avenue. I would let him down easily from the 
heights of aspiration and the stars of devotion to the 
depths of content and the earth of common regard. 
His bouquet has helped to swell the triumph, to set the 
seal of success. That ends its little mission. It will 
hardly be preserved in wax for an eternity of memory. 
Its delicate beauty will not long survive in the warlike 
abodes of the Amazons. 

But the ballet is over, and Undine and the good 
Knight, Sir Hubert, mount the triumphal car, which 
has just arrived from the bottom of the Rhine, and com- 
mence going to Heaven, with which ascent the men in 
the wilderness of ropes, up in the roof-tree, have some 
mysterious connection. The audience desiring a second 
view, the vehicle kindly pauses in its upward flight for 
a minute, and the curtain falls. 

For the information of the audience, I am warranted 
in stating that they did not get to Heaven, as I was on 
the Lurlei Berg when they descended, and have reason 
to know that both Undine and Sir Hubert went by the 
down-stairs route to the bottom of the Rhine again, to 
make ready for another act, what time the Nemesis of a 
call-boy shall make his appearance among the Immor- 
tals and summon them again to their work. 

While John Henry in the audience steps out to see a 
man ; while Young Boosey is telling Celestina his expe- 
riences at the Biche au Bois, in Paris; while the newly- 
married couple from Kankakee, who have never done 
the ballet before, are discussing its propriety, and the 
policy of not mentioning it to the old folks, the orches- 
tra has drawn itself into its room, as a turtle draws its 



Music and Beer. G^ 

head into its shell, and proceeds immediately to beer. 

If there is one part of the music which the orchestra 
can execute better than another, it is the moistening of 
the whistle. To an unbiased observer, the amount of 
beer which the trombone and double-bass, for instance, 
can absorb is simply remarkable, while the quantity 
which the small first violins and piccolo can hold, is ap- 
palling to the aforesaid unbiased observer, but calcu- 
lated to induce cheerfulness on the part of heavy brewers 
and a sense of gratitude to the makers of that class of 
porous instruments. 

The Lurlei Berg with its dangerous descent, the boat 
practical and all that part of the country about the 
Rhine is put out of the way for the evening, for in the 
next act we shall all be at the bottom of the Rhine, 
among the fish, who are now arraying themselves for the 
dance, in spangles and scaly armor of gold and silver. 
Meantime the call-boy is sent up for Undine and the 
gas-man for Sir Hubert, and the demons are rehearsing 
at them. A mild young man with whom I was talking 
on the Lurlei Berg, a few minutes ago, as we stood to- 
gether and watched the moonlight wavering in the rip- 
ples of the Rhine, who might from his looks have been 
one of those good young men who die early, is in the 
infuriated crowd, with a nugget of silver for a head, 
nondescript raiment on his body, and a huge club in 
hand rushing wildly towards me and looking like an 
exaggerated type of the Jibbenainosay. 

Which is only another mournful instance of the truth 
of the remark that "things are not what they seem." 

In the middle of the stage, exposed to the view of all, 
at the bottom of the Rhine, are fabulous piles of gold, 



64 The Curtain Up Again. 

silver and jewels, heaped up on a table, and carelessly 
left without any watchman. The amount and value of 
these treasures I would not like to estimate, nor the 
temptation which I experienced to appropriate a solitary 
jewel, which might have made my fortune when I re- 
turned to the upper earth. As I am meditating on the 
expediency of it, two rufhanly looking demons of the 
most hideous description mount the table and signifi- 
cantly lean upon their clubs, as if inviting somebody to 
try it on. One of them glances at me, and I decline 
the experiment. 

John Henry having seen his man, and the orchestra 
having returned from their beer, the scenery being in 
readiness, and the ubiquitous call-boy having again sum- 
moned the fish and other people to be up for the second 
act, the wings are full of fish. That little wasp, Ventu- 
rola, is to have a solo, and that there may not be any- 
thing to offend her dainty feet, she seizes the broom 
and sweeps the bottom of the Rhine clear of all obstruc- 
tions, for she is going to try to outdo Westmael to-night. 
The curtain rises, and my friends, the demons, have the 
stage. Kuhleborn, like a shot from a cannon ball, flies 
up through the star trap. Had there been a slight varia- 
tion in the working of the nice machinery of the trap, 
poor Kuhleborn's brains would have been dashed out 
by the heavy counter-weights, which, in their descent, 
force him up ; but the working is so well graduated that 
Kuhleborn is in no danger of injury, save from the 
apices of the triangular sections of the trap, which upon 
every exit manage to take off a small piece of his 
nose, whereupon, being a demon, he is excusable for in- 
dulging in slight expletives, such as are used by the 



The Fish Ballet. 65 

Rhine demons. As the square trap, through which he 
shuts himself up like a jack-knife and disappears, also 
manages to take off a small piece of his back and shoul- 
ders, it would prove an interesting study to calculate 
how much of Kuhleborn will be left at the expiration ot 
the allotted six weeks. 

The preliminary scene over, the Fish Ballet com- 
mences. This is Venturola's opportunity. A little 
more resin on her pretty feet. A little impatiently she 
waves aside the Amazons and Naiads, who have congre- 
gated in her wing to see the dance, and bounds upon 
the stage like a ball hot from the striker, amid the ap- 
plause of the audience. But not even her own fine ef- 
fort, nor the graceful posturing of the coryphees, nor 
the acrobatic and unique dancing of Kuhleborn, in his 
oil-cloth fish-skin, secure for her an encore. She does 
not even get a bouquet. 

Frantic young man ! Where were you at this critical 
moment ? 

She comes off the stage, and there is a snapping of 
those black eyes as she brushes through the crov/d down 
stairs to her dressing-room and slams the door. West- 
mael must look out for her laurels in the grand ballet of 
the next act, when the solo tests come. 

I pass to the grand ballet. The stage is full of the 
Amazons and coryphees, and all the premiers are in the 
wings, Westmael looking sadder and more weary than 
ever; Venturola full of determination and talking chain- 
lightning at the ballet master ; Fontana quietly walking 
about, and now and then rising on her toes; Mazzeri, 
Adrian, Oberti, Negri and Guerrero, all anxious, for 
thunderbolts have fallen ere this out of the clear sky, 

6 



66 The Grand Ballet. 

and who knows but one of them may get an encore ? 
Little Schlager has already had her encore and gone oft 
the stage with an approving pat on the head from the 
ballet-master, with her mother's face beaming with satis- 
faction, and her own lit up with triumph. Encore is 
the magic word which incites them all. 

The ballet is drawing to a close. Only Venturola 
and Westmael are left. Venturola has outdone herself, 
and her fine diminuendo whirl has gained for her not 
only a bouquet but the coveted encore. She is satisfied, 
and in her nervous manner she chatters French, German 
and English to everybody. The familiar music ot 
Westmael's brief closing solo strikes up. She is stand- 
ing, as at the first, quietly in the wing. She has paid 
no attention to the dance. By a stranger she would 
have been taken only for a listless observer. She is evi- 
dently in pain and very sick to-night, and the hard, dry 
cough grates upon the ear, but at the first bar of the 
music her face lights up and she springs upon the stage 
with no trace of trouble. Every movement is perfect, 
from the dainty, spirited, bold walk upon the toes to 
the final pose, and there is no mistaking the encore that 
follows. The encore does not seem to have any charm 
for her to-night, but the audience compel it, and by a 
tremendous effort of the will she repeats. I say by a 
tremendous effort, for as she returns she instantly re- 
lapses into her old state. Her breath comes and goes 
spasmodically and her chest is thumping as if a sledge- 
hammer were at work within it. She staggers along a 
few steps and faints, and pitying hands carry her to her 
room. To-morrow night she will be herself again, but 
to-night it has been a burden. 



Over. 67 

It would not be proper for me to disclose the work- 
ings of the last, or Transformation Scene; and if it 
were, I would not strip off the romance, grace and 
beauty that surround and pervade it. I can only admire 
the skill, taste and knowledge of effects — the genius 
which with the slightest of materials can produce an 
illusion so brilliant and captivating, both to the eye and 
ear. It requires a genius akin to that of the best work- 
er in oils, and a taste and imagination of the highest 
order. 

The calcium lights are extinguished. The colored 
fires have burned down. The prompter closes his book. 
The figures of the tableaux descend from their graceful 
but uncomfortable positions. The property man is 
looking after his properties. The manager is thanking 
"you, ladies, very well done." The lights are turned 
off. Rhine land and Rhine River vanish, and I leave 
the stage for this upper world. 

December 14, 1867. 




A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 




N the year i of our blessed Lord, a carpenter 
came with his wife to Bethlehem to pay his tax- 
es, and it is to be hoped he did not have to shut 
his eyes and grit his teeth as I did when I paid mine in 
the year 1867 of our blessed Lord. 

If the taxes at Bethlehem were on the scale of the 
taxes at Chicago, it is no wonder that the carpenter and 
his wife lodged in a stable. 

On that night a Child was born among the cattle, and 
the angels opened the doors of Heaven and flooded the 
whole Bethlehem Plain with music, what time the shep- 
herds leaned upon their staves to listen, and the sheep 
knelt down upon their knees in adoration. And wise, 
long-bearded Magi of the Orient came upon their cam- 
els, bearing gifts with them and following the star which 
never tarried until it stood over the young Child. 

And from that Christmas to this Christmas, do I sol- 
emnly believe, that on each recurrence of the birthday of 
our blessed Lord, the angels open wide the doors of 
Heaven and smile upon each young child, and that 
some star still stands over each young child to guide 
Santa Claus on his beautiful errand. 

Now I know that old Midas, who never had an aspi- 



The Day. 69 

ration of soul that soared higher than a quintal of cod- 
fish, nor an imagination that was not regularly ruled 
and indexed with a Dr. on one side, and a Cr. on the 
other, and a $ all over it; and that Mrs. Midas, whose 
theory of life is bounded by a bonnet-string and colored 
with the latest Bismarck shade, will shrug shoulders at 
the idea. And well they may, for I think it exceeding- 
ly doubtful whether the smallest star in the canopy would 
find it worth while to stand over either of them. And 
yet do I believe that there are choice spirits over whom 
a star stands, raining down blessed influences and ever 
bringing them closer together. 

And thus the first Christmas was celebrated in that 
Bethlehem stable one thousand eight hundred and sixty- 
seven years ago, and when it was over, the carpenter 
took his tax receipt, unvexed by special assessments for 
lamp posts, Nicolson pavements, plank sidewalks, etc., 
and went on his way rejoicing. 

It seems to me, furthermore, that I hang up my stock- 
ing — that stocking which all the rest of the year has 
held only a foot, terror to shoemakers, and a bunion 
worthy its namesake, the immortal Tinker — on the most 
beautiful day of the year. It comes set like a jewel in 
the very heart of winter; when all nature is at rest; 
when the days are shortest and the nights are darkest ; 
when every bird is silent upon the hillside; when no 
leaf is green but the holly, and the ivy, and the winter- 
green ; when the weather is bleakest without but cheeriest 
within ; when the storms sweep through the streets and 
the house-fires glow ruddiest on the hearths; when the 
grayest sky is made bright by Santa Claus, Kriss Kringle 
and the Christ-Kindchen ; and Christmas-tide runs joy- 



70 An Old Woman. 

fully with wassail and taper-lighted tree, and song and 
dance. New Year has come to be hedged in by fashion. 
Fourth of July is a matter of buncombe. Thanksgiving 
is dear to the stomach. But Christmas is the day of all 
days — the best and the brightest of the year. 

I would like to be a little child, or an old woman, it 
matters little which, to really enjoy Christmas. I would 
like to have back all the angles which friction with the 
world has rubbed off, and to thoroughly believe in the 
existence of that Laplander who drives his team of 
reindeer athwart the housetops, tethers them to the 
chimneys, and fills up the small stockings on the bed- 
posts ; and to stand before a Christmas tree under the 
firm conviction that there never was anything so beauti- 
ful in the world before. 

Or I would like to be an old woman, to sit, with my 
feet to the fire, in the arm-chair, with my best cap on, 
and just one gray curl escaping from it — that identical 
curl which played the deuce with gouty, rheumatic, 
splenetic, dear old John Anderson, in the chair oppo- 
site, half a century ago, when we were the pride of the 
whole country-side ; with not a single wrinkle on my 
smooth face ; with my silk gown on, which will stand 
alone; with my flock of children, and grandchildren, 
and great-grandchildren trooping about me; with bless- 
ed memories of a long and well-spent life : with tender 
recollections of eighty Christmases, dead and under the 
snow, whose ghosts flit by me in the ashes; with the 
beautiful privilege of extending my hands over the 
young heads and blessing them, as the Lord Christ 
stretches his hands in benediction over the earth each 
Christmas, and confers upon it the gift of his grace. 



The Christmas Goose. 71 

Even the crisp brown goose, smoking upon the plat- 
ter, down whose streaming sides the little rivulets of rich 
gravy are trickling, his breast bursting with all savory 
essences, happy in his side pieces and doubly blessed in 
his second joints, is to be congratulated on his culinary 
canonization. The bald eagle, flying from the Atlantic 
to the Pacific, gazing at the sun because it don't hurt 
him a particle, and stealing chickens and other small 
deer from the barnyards; and the strutting turkey of 
Thanksgiving, with his shrivelled, chippy breast and 
stringy legs, are unworthy of mention by the side of the 
Christmas goose. Is it not well worth the while of any 
feathered biped to be a fool through life, the scoif and 
scorn of dogs and men, if haply he may achieve an 
apotheosis like that of the Christmas goose? He dies 
that we may dine. He dies in the flesh to resurrect in 
the oven. He passes from mortal sight to reappear in 
fate de foie gras. He gives his head cheerfully to the 
block that his body may be the crowning glory and the 
holocaust of Christmas-tide. His life, homely and fool- 
ish as it is, is not altogether in vain. How many of us 
bipeds without feathers may lay claim to the same 
merits? 

If there is a sad spot in all the earth, on Christmas 
morning, it must be the house where there are no 
children ; over which no star stops ; in which there is 
no small stocking to be filled ; in which no juvenile car- 
nival will be celebrated. The giving of gifts is one of 
the most blessed privileges of the day. Blessed, too, on 
that day, is the bachelor uncle or brother, who can con- 
fer gifts upon the little ones, and thrice blessed the good 
sister of every neighborhood, who makes glad so many 



7 2 Chi'istmas Charity. 

little hearts. If there is a wretched person on earth, 
it must be the man who can't or won't make a Christ 
mas gift. 

And, in all our Christmas giving, let us remember 
this, that under many roofs no Christmas-tree will blaze, 
and on many hearths the ashes will be gray and cold ; 
that in many homes the voice of the angel, proclaiming 
the Bethlehem message," Peace on earth, and good will 
to men," will be silenced by the wolf ai the door; that 
many little feet will be cold upon the pavement, wan- 
dering about in quest of food ; that many little eyes will 
peer into the windows and wonder at the strange siglits 
and sounds; that poverty, hunger and despair will be 
the only visitants at many firesides in this Christian 
land of ours, filled with feasting and plenty. Let us 
therefore in all our giving remember that "the greatest 
of these is charity." Let us remember that the abodes 
of poverty are doubly dear to us on this day of all the 
year. Let us cheer them with our bounty, and vivify 
them with words of joy and hope. Let us make our 
star stand over these homes. Let us remember the 
poor, for the first Christmas was celebrated in a stable 
among the cattle, and the Christ-child was born in a 
manger, for the carpenter and his wife, who came down 
to pay taxes, were very poor. 

My carol would not be closed without my Christmas 
wishes. And therefore a merry Christmas-tide to all 
gentle people, and a blotting out of all enmities on 
Christmas morn. A merry Christmas to all, saints and 
sinners. A merry Christmas to Aurelia and Celeste 
basking in the sunshine, and to Bridget in the shade. 
A merry Christmas to my enemy, whom I forgive, and 



Merry Christmas. 73 

to my friend, in Avhose heart I live. A merry Christ- 
mas to all children Avhose little lips will syllable the 
sweet utterances of childhood. A merry Christmas to 
the homeless, and the outcasts, and the Pariahs — God 
help them. A merry Christmas to my creditors, and 
many returns of the same. A merry Christmas and a full 
wassail bowl to all good fellows. A merry Christmas to 
the Tribune and all its readers, and, Mr. Editor, a 
merry Christmas to you upon your tripod, and may 
your stockings be well filled. 

And "Glory to God in the highest; on earth peace, 
^nd good will to men." 

December 25, 1867. 




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THE NEW YEAR. 




HE closing of the year offers some epistolary 
temptations which it is hard to resist. One 
fiend says "write;" the other says "don't." 

One fiend shows me the admirable things I might 
say, as, for instance : The old man going out sadly, and 
the young man coming in gleefully. This, done up 
with allusions to biers and shrouds and angels and roses, 
would be a stunner. 

Again, I could make a strong point out of the hour- 
glass, with the grains of sand slipping through, skilfully 
keeping up the interest until I got to the last grain, 
which I could manipulate up to a thrilling denouement. 

And then what a touching picture I might draw of 
1867 frozen on his bier, his crown tumbled off and his 
sceptre broken ; and what a bacchanalian revelry I 
might paint in introducing the birth of 1868. 

And again, I might draw a strong draft on the tears 
of tender readers by recalling recollections of the Old 
year and casting the horoscope of the New. 

And think of the magnificent material I might have 
to use in doing all this : the dark shores of Eternity, the 
waves of Styx, old Charon, all the cheerful parapherna- 
lia of the undertaker, and the appliances of the accou- 



Cui Bojiof 75 

cheu?-, which would form the piece de resistance, not to 
speak of the garnitures of regrets, tears, sighs, resolu- 
tions, prophesies, floAvers, cherubs, broken harp-strings 
and other properties which might be mixed in indis- 
criminately, and with a sort of blue -fire effect, which 
would be telling. 

And as there is nothing else to write about, it shows 
that I have a good deal of moral courage when I solemn- 
ly assert that I am not going to say a word about them. 

For, cui bono ? 

The world will continue to turn on its axis every 
twenty-four hours. Old Midas will continue to crust 
his soul over with % marks, until he gets them on so 
thickly that he won't be able to give an account of him- 
self on the Day of Judgment, without referring to his 
ledger or sending for his confidential clerk. Mrs. Mi- 
das will go on saying ungracious things about her next>- 
door neighbor, who can "see" her bonnet and go ten 
dollars better every time. Celeste will continue to dis- 
tract her pretty little empty head in solving the problem 
of a new bias. Aurelia and Mr. Peplum will continue 
to have their little differences over the muffins, which 
will begin to abate with the soup, and disappear in a 
torrent of regrets over the mediatory Souchong. Rail- 
roads will continue to cook people alive without a pang 
of remorse. Men and women will continue to air their 
dirty linen and haul each other through the mud of the 
divorce courts, under the insane idea that other people 
will be interested in their small vices, just as if other 
people hadn't any of their own which were just as in- 
teresting. 

The coming year will be very like the going year, and 



76 A Hundred Years Hence, 

thus the world will keep going round the sun for us, 
until the Great Manager sends the call-boy to summon 
us up for the last act. We shall then make our parting 
bow — pray God, all of us like gentlemen, and the cur- 
tain will come down. 

But because our little stage grows suddenly dark, it 
does not follow that the great audience in front of the cur- 
tain will break up and go home, or that other actors 
will not play their parts on the same grand stage of life. 

And a hundred years hence it is not altogether im- 
probable that our little ant-hill, over which we have 
made such a fuss, and up and down which we have pa- 
raded so often, and on which we have expended so much 
effort to make it larger than the next hill, will be utter- 
ly forgotten ; and that, in those far-off days, we may be 
blowing down Clark street on some fine, breezy, spring 
day, or sold in the form of cabbage from some itinerant 
Teuton's cart; or, if we have been good children, that 
we may be blossoming in a daisy, or looking out of the 
blue eyes of a violet at the great, white, lying slab close 
by, in a maze of wonder at the saints we were a hundred 
years ago. 

You see all these things are to be considered in deci- 
ding whether to say anything about New Year's. And 
as I have before stated that I am not going to say any- 
thing about it, this relieves me from alluding to New 
Year's calls. 

Because if I were to say anything about them I should 
have to hurt the feelings of the Dear Creatures. It 
would be unkind, for instance, to go to work deliberate- 
ly and catalogue Aurelia's callers; Old Gunnybags, who 
carries into effect his business regulations, atoning on 



New Yearns Calls. 77 

that day, by wholesale, his little retail visiting sins of 
the year; the bashful young man who remarks that it is 
a very fine day to-day, that it was remarkable weather 
yesterday, and that he shouldn't be surprised at pleasant 
w,eather to-morrow; and who, having fired off his little 
speech, falls back in good order to the refreshments; 
the mental leisure which Titmouse enjoys, who does a 
smashing day's business on a small capital by establish- 
ing a reputation for 'wit in three hundred families, upon 
whom he has palmed off the same brilliant remarks, the 
same carefully drawn out repartee and the same conun- 
drum; the young man of florid complexion and rather 
heavy build, who makes the duration of his call con- 
ditional upon the character of refreshments, and who 
will not fail to mention your sins of omission to Mrs. 
Brown, next door, who has spread herself on London 
sherry and boned turkey ; the bore who never calls but 
once a year, and then tries to become a permanent 
boarder; the nuisance whom you never saw before and 
never want to see again; old Deacon Glum, who ten- 
derly inquires after your soul, in a business sort of way 
remarks on the brevity of time, and throws in a lot of 
those pretty metaphors which I threw out at the com- 
mencement of this letter; young FitzHenry, who has a 
wine supper for six wagered that he will do his four 
hundred calls before six o'clock, and is now on his last 
heat ; that fellow Boodle, with the long nose and little 
eyes, who is making up a collection of small gossip 
which he will dish up for the next six months. It 
would be unfair to catalogue all these nice people, and 
I will spare Aurelia's feelings by refusing to do it. 
Neither do I propose on this occasion to allude to the 



78 Resolutions. 

astounding number of resolutions which I make on the 
first day of the year and break regularly before I reach 
the second week of January. If I have one faculty 
better developed than another, it is that of making and 
breaking resolutions. Didn't I firmly resolve th€ first 
of last January that I would be very temperate in the 
use of the King's English for the space of three hundred 
and sixty-five days? And when two hours later I 
slipped down on the sidewalk, and 'in the operation sat 
down on my new hat and looked up to see a thoughtless 
young man laughing at me, didn't I break that resolu- 
tion and address some remarks to that thoughtless young 
man which were rather more emphatic than elegant? 

I fancy I did. 

Equally when I was a little boy did I not resolve one 
New Year's Day that I would keep the whole Ten Com- 
mandments, and was I not caught in the preserve closet 
the same day and subjected to a degree of corporal pun- 
ishment which made me break nearly all the rest of them 
before night? 

I never saw but one person who succeeded in keeping 
a New Year's resolution, and he had pined away so rap- 
idly in his physical and grown so abnormally in his 
moral man, that it was really painful to look at him. He 
was the nearest approach to an angel on half rations I 
ever expect to see. A good meal would have made him 
sick, but I really believe he would have bolted at one 
gulp the entire nine tons of tracts which some New 
York individual has kindly forwarded to the Young 
Men's Christian Association. 

I cannot but admire the theological cheek of this 
man. His brass is of no ordinary description. It is 



Tracts. 



79 



sonorous, stately, magnificent. Nine tons of tracts! 
Twenty thousand one hundred and sixty pounds of ap- 
peal to the ungodly! Three hundred and twenty-two 
thousand five hundred and sixty ounces of the essence 
of doctrine ! About thirty miles of grace ! 

December 28, 1867. 




OLE BULL, 




Y last recollection of Farwell Hall is connected 
with a tall, graceful, sweet-faced old man, his 
head lovingly bending over a violin that old 
Stradivarius made centuries ago, his eyes closed, transfig- 
ured in a vision of music, until he seemed to me to wear 
the face that Beethoven, the Master, might have worn. In 
his hands the dull wood was again in life. It was part of 
an organism, and it told the old man of the rustle of 
leaves in the summer gales ; of the songs of birds in the 
branches; of the brawling waters of the brooks that 
moistened the roots ; of the rude winds that smote the 
tree on Italian hills \ of the star that looked down upon 
it in delicious Italian nights; of the vernal thrill, the 
summer glow, the autumnal decay, and the wintry 
death in life — the great miracle which Nature performs 
for us each year; and the old man interpreted it in be- 
witching strains to some who gave themselves up to the 
spell and were drawn nearer together by the sympathy 
which music produces, to some who heard the sound and 
not the soul, and to some who heard neither, in the 
sound of their own small gabble. 

And the next day, when a heap of smoking bricks, 
and charred beams, and twisted iron was all that was 



Concert Nuisances. 8i 

left of the beautiful hall, it seemed to me that I had met 
with an irreparable loss — that some friend had suddenly 
vanished. 

January 11, 1868. 



One of the most charmingly chatty things Leigh Hunt 
ever wrote was his "Earth Upon Heaven," in which he 
imagined himself following out his earthly occupations 
in the upper world; dining with all the good fellows of 
past ages; reading new plays of Shakspeare and new 
novels of Scott; eating sugar that was not sanded, and 
drinking milk from celestial cows in the Milky Way. 

It is to be hoped the earthly concert nuisances will be 
abated there also, and that we may hope to hear the 
Malibrans and the Linds, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Mo- 
zart, Bach and Gluck in new and diviner symphonies 
and songs (think of that!), without being annoyed by a 
garrulous angel behind us commenting on the cut of 
this angel's wings, the color of that angel's feathers, and 
the awkward manner in which some other angel flies to 
her seat, and the dreadfully stupid way in which young 
Highflier sat down upon Blanche's wings. It would be 
horrible to think of an eternity of music with an eter- 
nity of nuisance. 

Ibid. 




SMALL TALK. 




IHERE are two kinds of small talk — one which 
is very silly, and when it does not run to twad- 
dle, takes the worse form of slander and cruel 
gossip. These two phases are not inconsistent with each 
other, for it takes a very silly person to be a good gos- 
siper. The greater amount of nonsense that a woman 
can talk to your face, the worse will be the gossip that 
she will talk behind you. Her wits may be very small 
in one direction, bur they will be very sharp in the 
other. 

The other kind of small talk is very delightful. It is 
chatty, sunny, spicy and brilliant. It may not be as 
deep as the ocean, but is not a little brook, singing 
over the pebbles, flashing in the sunlight, and whispering 
pretty little stories it learned from the naiads in the 
fountain where it was born, to the scarlet cardinals and 
golden-rods that lean over to listen, just as delightful as 
the uncertain depths of the ocean with dim suggestions 
of dirty sea-weed, slimy monsters, ribs of argosies and 
dead men's bones? Is not the little brook which can 
take the most distant star right into its heart, just as 
beautiful as the heavy ocean into whose depths no star 
beam can penetrate? 

This kind of small talk is an eloquent art, and fortii- 



Small Talk. 83 

nate are the favored few who have mastered it. It may 
commence with the weather, which you discover is not 
threadbare, for it is the weather which breaks the ice 
for you, and it runs from the weather to the opera, from 
opera to music in general, from music to art, art to 
books, and from books to men and women. Neat Httle 
criticisms; characteristic observations; flashes of wit; 
pleasant satire which never wounds — fragmentary yet 
always polished — superficial, perhaps, yet here and there 
giving you indications of lower depths which would be 
worth exploring at the proper time. These are the main 
characteristics of accomplished small talk. 

This species of small talk can only exist between the 
opposite sexes. Between women, small talk becomes 
silly or it runs to confidences. In the one case it is soon 
exhausted, in the other it is vulgarly supposed to be 
eternal; and the amount of smothered grief, of heart- 
rending woe, of poignant anguish, of amorous doubts, 
of Sphynx-like mysteries, of secret grief which cannot 
be whispered even to her pillow, which one young wo- 
man will confide to four hundred other young women, 
is only equalled by the rapidity with which the latter 
will dispossess themselves of les confidences and the fer- 
tile imagination which will clothe them entirely new 
even before they are divulged for the second time. 

Between men, small talk is simply idiotic. 

You pass an evening with Serafina, and you get only 
simpers and syllabubs. She will not give you the ghost 
of a thought, although her tongue has been running 
like a mill-clapper for two mortal hours. She will run 
the whole gamut of talk, and you shall never once get a 
taste of the amber wine beneath the foam. 



84 Small Talk, 

Per contra, in an evening with Blanche, she will dive 
like a humming bird into every flower, sweet or bitter, 
beautiful or ugly, and extract honey from each. She 
does not linger long on anything. She does not go too 
deep to be tiresome, and yet you are aware that she 
would lead you a terrible chase into the real if you gave 
the word. With that infinite tact which no one but a 
clever woman possesses, she will draw you out and give 
you cues for conversation without your ever dreaming of 
it. If you have a hobby, she will quietly saddle it and 
help you to mount, and spur it up to a rattling pace 
with little ingenuous confessions of ignorance, and im- 
plied flatteries which show you at once your superiority 
over the rest of mankind; and she will take you off 
your hobby and turn him out to grass so gracefully that 
you will be thoroughly satisfied with your ride. She 
will read you a charming little homily on her gold cross, 
which ''Jews might kiss or infidels adore," and she will 
lead you with that narrow edge of lace around her 
pretty throat, which a rude breath might dissipate, 
through meadows of talk, where every flower is "a 
thing of beauty" and "a joy forever." 

But to effectually do this, she must have no hobbies, 
and she must assume an ignorance if she have it not. 
Ignorance is one of the strongest weapons in the female 
armory, and if the small talk assumes the form of an ar- 
gument, a graceful yielding, especially if one is obsti- 
nate, is also politic. 

January 18, 1808. 



FLAT ON THE BACK. 




WRITE to you to-day Avith a sugar-coated pill 
and a small bottle of suspicious-looking fluid, 
which ^sculapius has designated with the 
cabalistic abbreviations " Aq. Cret. Rhu. Pulv. zjiii,''^ 
between myself and the delirious chaos of fever. 

My surroundings are not of a character to induce ex- 
travagant cheerfulness, or to resolve a very decided 
precipitate out of the mixture of virtue and necessity — 
a severely chemico-moral test I have been working at 
for the past three days. 

I think a man might dig into a cucumber for sun- 
beams or a mushroom for moonlight, with better chances 
of success, than I shall have in attempting to extract 
humor from the scanty material at hand, viz : Several 
wet towels, ice water, a mustard plaster, sundry hot 
bricks, pills, potions and lotions ad libitum, and a small 
piece of toasted cracker. 

The last item is the connecting link between myself 
and the good goddess Hygeia, and I regard it with an 
interest I never knew before, considering the clutch with 
which Febris has seized me. 

Thus, skirting along the shore of Febris, sufficiently 

near to catch with full force the burning simooms which 

blow across its miasmatic lands — near enough to burn 

from its equator and to freeze from its poles, to feel its 

7* 



S6 Compensations. 

clamps and hooks, with which it is tugging at bone and 
muscle, while the soul has gone visiting, and not even 
left the Will at home to resist disease — near enough all 
night long, as I sail in the darkness, to see the will- 
o'-the-wisps, and goblins, and chimeras, the skeletons 
of dead fancies, the ghosts of dreams and the realities 
of horror which are the only inhabitants of this land 
over which Febris reigns — behind me the very bright 
light of day, and before, only a very uncertain star — 
under a red-hot bed quilt, flanked with a small drug 
store — the great world outside only recognizable by a 
confused hum — isolated from complete sights and sounds 
— I vegetate and moralize. 

If one should feed luxuriously on almond paste and 
comfits all his life, he would never appreciate the pro- 
ducts of sour apple trees and the extracts of much- 
maligned herbs. So also if one should forever pursue 
the beaten track of good health, which is only the case 
in perfection among buffaloes and Digger Indians, one 
would never know the luxury and the blessing of being 
sick. We must have, now and then, a cessation of the 
good to appreciate the bad. 

I can conceive that it would be the height of wretched- 
ness to be compelled to live with a saint on earth. This 
world was not made for saints, and those who have made 
the foolish attempt to be saints, have wisely climbed pil- 
lars, gone into caves or wandered in deserts, getting as 
far out of the world as possible. Those who have per- 
sisted in being saints and remaining in the world, have 
usually been hanged or burned by other saints. 

Equally, the man who is always well, becomes a 
nuisance after a time. His ruddy face hangs out a 



The Healthy Man. 87 

constant banner of presumptuous defiance, and the only 
person who can conscientiously love him is a life in- 
surance agent. He never knows the soft ministrations 
of small female hands, or the hygienic virtue in the 
hem of an old lady's robe. Consequently his milk of 
human kindness is very apt to freeze up. He can have 
but small sympathy, for no one can sympathize, who 
has not learned sympathy by experience. At this present 
moment I fairly burn with pity, and extend a red right 
hand of sympathy to every man, woman and child, who 
has ever had a fever, v/ho has a fever now, or who is 
going to have a fever. In his great, strong animal 
existence he goes crashing and smashing about like a 
whale among minnows, with this difference — that the 
whale is bent upon legitimate prey, while your healthy 
man is simply trying to show that he is a whale. 

As who should say, "Here am I, Mr. Merryman, the 
great American Healthist. Any lady or gentleman in 
the audience, wishing to show liver, lights or lungs, will 
please step forward into the arena. ' ' 

But, of course, there are compensations for all this. 
In the next world our healthy friend will probably take 
twice as much punishment as some of the poor devils 
who took half of theirs before they went there. 

A person whose wings have sprouted and grown, and 
who has become a precocious angel in the prescribed 
three score and ten, is certainly leaving a very narrow 
margin for angelic growth hereafter, and, equally, a 
man who goes through his three score and ten without 
any terrene ails, I fancy will need Hippocrates and Ga- 
len when he gets to the other shore. 

At least, so it seems to a man flat on his back. 



88 Sugar-Coated People. 

Which stars are to be considered equivalent to the 
time consumed in taking the sugar-coated pill before re- 
ferred to, reminding one, in its passage down the aeso- 
phagus, of the cathartic literature which St. John swal- 
lowed, sweet above and bitter below. 

Which recalls to me that the most of us are more or 
less sugar-coated — sweet outside, but quite bitter, or 
quite sad, or quite bad inside. 

The partition between body and soul with some of us 
is so thin that the light shines through easily. 

Some of us, again, cover up our little sepulchres so 
thickly with vines and roses, and fix such a laughing 
mask on the door, that we pass for very Ariels, God help 
lis ! 

While others of us still, living in ourselves, isolated 
from all intimate relations, carry in our faces no sign of 
the toil and the weariness and the struggle. It is all 
blank on the outside; on the inside, it is isolation, death 
and expiation. 

But, then, there are some of us who get our pills coat- 
ed so badly that a child wouldn't touch them. For in- 
stance, good Deacon Jones, who slept all through Par- 
son Primrose's sermon, and told Deacon Brown, who 
didn't sleep, that the Parson's doctrine was correct; 
Prof. Blather, who hitches himself to the tail of every 
high-flying kite, hoping thereby to be brought before 
the popular eyes; old Mrs. Peacock, who still persists in 
being young, making admirers, mincing through her 
spavined paces, leering with her faded eyes out of that 
painted face, when all Japonicadom knows there is not 
a genuine feather about her. And so ojie might go on 



The Doctor. 89 

for hours, for the number of these badly coated pills is 
legion. 
At least, so it seems to a man flat on his back. 

More stars for the Doctor who has been to see me. 
He is a jolly, sanguine dog, and assures me I shall be up 
in time for the opera — if not for the whole season, at 
least that I shall have two days off — one for Bellini's 
Englishman and one for Hermanns' Alephisto. 

What a blessing these jolly doctors are. They give 
one an invoice of moral courage, wherewith to make a 
stout fight against disease. They light up your room as 
beautifully as the sun this morning kindled my frosty 
window-panes with burning gold. And my jolly doc- 
tor will not take it unkindly of me if I say that I have 
more confidence in his jolliness than in his cabalistic 
abbreviations. 

On the other hand, I can conceive that if I were 
compelled to receive the attentions of one of those 
solemn, owl-like doctors — those funereal-looking person- 
ages in deep black, whose noses and chins meet — who 
wear heavy canes, the knobs of which do heavy thinking 
for the wearers — whose only remark is an ominous 
shake of the head, and the preparation of a bill at the 
neighboring drug store — who have made the very sun- 
light look mercurial, and who cut off the supply of 
that delicious Muscat which Blanche sent in — I think, 
after one visit from such a walking Bolus, I should say, 
with Elijah of old: "It is enough; now let me die. 
You may call in your friend Sir." For I should know 
that as soon as he came into the house Death would 
sneak after him, and wait outside the door. 



90 Better. 



At least, so it seems to a man flat on his back. 

Another night in the darkness, sailing along these 
shores of Febris, and this crystal Saturday morning, it 
seems all bright and clear ahead. I feel no more the 
breath of the burning gales, but in its place an ecstacy 
of pain. My hand wearies and the head tires with this 
trifling work which has run through three days of nullity. 

At least, so it seems to a man flat on his back. 

January 31, 1868. 




GETTING OUT OF BED. 




ETTING out of bed is one of the little circum- 
stances which shows man in his abstract essence. 
He is then a pure animal with all his instincts 
on the surface. There is no dignity in him then, no 
majesty, no true religion, no concealment of his nature. 
In fact he is worse off than the lower orders of the brute 
creation, as they awake in the full plenitude of their life. 
A butterfly, which has slept all night in a tulip, rises 
from his gorgeously curtained couch just as beautiful as 
he is under the noonday sun, when he lazily flutters 
among the languid roses. Man, when he rises, is a 
fragmentary being and has to be set up piece by piece 
and arrayed in his conventional garments before he can 
say good morning to the world. 

There are various methods of getting out of bed. 
One man in a thousand wakes up all over at once, kicks 
off his bedclothes and bounds out of bed as Minerva 
bounded out of Jupiter's brain, armed and equipped as 
the law directs. He never tasted lotus in his life. He 
owns no real estate in Spain, but a good deal of outside 
city property. He never saw the point of a joke in his 
life. He never dreams. He is fiendishly healthy, and 
will, therefore, have much to answer for in the next 
world. He has no idea of the do Ice far niente. If he 
has imagination, he clipped its wings long ago. K post 
mo7'tem examination of his internal economy would re- 



92 Little at a Time, 

veal nothing to speak of but columns of logarithms, in- 
terest tables and bills of lading in his skull, a complete 
set of office furniture in his stomach, and his abdominal 
canal crowded with cargoes of lumber and perches of 
stone. And he is apt to forget to say his prayers. 

There are men who get out of bed a little at a time. 
The first symptoms of life are uneasy movements and a 
gentle rustling of the bedclothes. Slowly one arm ap- 
pears from under the coverlid, and is thrown over the 
head. Then out comes another arm, disposed of in a 
similar manner. His legs are uneasy. One eye opens 
in a very uncertain manner and blinks, and the other 
opens and winks, and then both blink and wink for some 
minutes. He then commences to uncoil himself and 
straighten himself out. This is the stretching process. 
He mutters to himself incoherent nothings. He tries to 
go to sleep again, but the charm is broken. He yawns, 
and the process fairly opens his eyes. He sneezes, and . 
the grand currents of life are once more in motion. 
One more stretch all over, and he accepts the hard 
necessity of nature which condemns him to quit his 
lotus to feed on hash, and he slowly gets out of bed as 
one utterly disgusted. 

There is another class of men who always get out of 
bed over the footboard, and are uncomfortable all day 
after it. Their idea of happiness is realized in making 
somebody wretched, and they are singularly fortunate 
in the realization of that idea. They are sour in aspect 
and in disposition. No one has any rights they are 
bound to respect. Mrs. Gilliflower and her daughter, 
who always come late and go away early from the con- 
certs, get out over the footboard. The man who mis- 



Ovei' the Footboard. 93 

takes a horse car for a hog pen and acts accordingly, 
although in some respects he is not much mistaken, gets 
out over the footboard. The man who worries his 
butcher or his baker over an insignificant trifle, and is 
too mean to have the snow shoveled off his sidewalk ; 
the man who makes his lady clerks stand on their feet 
all day whether engaged or not ; the woman who has 
a keen scent for ferreting out other persons' foibles and 
attending to other persons' business; the woman who is 
constantly lamenting over the wickedness and follies of 
the times ; the man whose clumsiness trips him over and 
who then anathematizes an innocent curbstone; the 
man who raises a domestic war every morning over a 
lost button which he ripped off the night before, over 
an open window which he left open himself, over the 
discovery of his boots under the bed, where he placed 
them himself, over a dried up beefsteak which has been - 
waiting an hour for him ; the man whose pious nose 
goes heavenward at the sight of innocent pleasure, and 
who doesn't give his clerks time enough for dinner; the 
man who is sour himself and sours everything he touches 
— all these people get up over the footboard, and they 
won't get up any other way. If the footboard was 
forty feet high they would go over it with a step ladder, 
and curse every rung of it all the way up. 

Then, there are men who get up only half awake, and 
don't fairly wake up until it is time to go to bed again. 
These are the unlucky ones, against whom fate and na- 
ture have a grudge. In the grand lottery of life they 
draw all the blanks. They usually receive all the 
broken limbs and fractured legs. They have come 
within a hair's breadth of making a fortune a number of 



94 Half Aivake. 

times, but tlie hair was always too much. Such a man 
is always the one killed on a railway train. If he hears 
of a case of small-pox in West Wheeling, he will catch 
it. He is always the man in the great crowd who loses 
his pocket-book, and although he is one of the best ot 
fellows, it will be just his luck to be overlooked by St. 
Peter at the gate of Heaven. 

My favorite way of getting out of bed is to wake up, 
bid good morning to the newly created day, quietly turn 
over and go to sleep again without disturbing any one, 
and sleep the sleep of the just. In that second nap, I 
visit my Spanish castles. Their architecture is more 
elaborate and ethereal than ever Wren dreamed of, and 
they float always in an amber haze just over the Pyre- 
nees. I have leased them all to a goodly company ot 
ladies and gentlemen, and they are the best of pay. 
Among them are the fair Rosamund; poor Beatrice 
Cenci; that other Beatrice, who has come down from 
her shining beatitudes and occupies one of the best ot 
them with Dante; the yellow-haired Gretchen and 
Faust; the rare and radiant Countess Irma; Spenser's 
Fairy Queen and Titania; Aspasia, still reclining on 
beds of roses; Dame Durden, whose house is no longer 
bleak; Cinderella, with her tiny slipper; Joan of Dom- 
remy, still talking with the angels; Undine, bathing in 
eternal streams ; Colonel Newcome, and that prince of 
good fellows, George Warrington; Wilkins Micawber 
and Samuel Weller, who are living together — (Uriah 
Heep and Mr. Chadband made application for one 
castle, but their references were not good) — Wilhelm 
Meister and Nathan the Wise ; the Lady of Shallott and 
Hiawatha, who have become firm friends ; the fair Flo- 



Half Awake. 95 

rinda and the Princess Scherezade, who amuse each 
other with rare stories; Sinbad and Aladdin and Rasse- 
las ; and Donatello, who never can agree with Werter. 
When I arrive, they hang out the banners, and such 
music as Malibran and Sontag sing, which Beethoven, 
Mendelssohn, and Schubert have been writing for them, 
you don't hear in our concert halls. All the charming 
women and good fellows, of all times, come in to break- 
fast and we drink ambrosial wines, sweeter than the 
honey of Hymettus, and breakfast on fruits which have 
mellowed in the hanging gardens. There is no such 
lotus, by the bye, on the Nile banks as grows in those 
gardens. Time would fail me to narrate the sonnets 
that Dante is writing; the good jokes that George War- 
rington and Sam Weller have with each other over 
Wilkins, who is still waiting for something to turn up; 
the philosophical speculations of Rasselas, and the 
Munchausenisms of Sinbad ; to tell you of a magnificent 
Spanish symphony that Beethoven has just finished, and 
the delight with which he listens to a new Ave Maria by 
Schubert, for the grand old master's hearing has been 
restored ; the songs of Irma, as she looks down upon 
the mountains of her transfiguration ; and the great joy 
of Faust and Gretchen, who have deciphered the vi- 
tal problem they could not solve in the baneful shadow 
of Mephisto. The most beautiful castle is reserved for 
the friend who died years ago and passed away from me, 
but who is now like the living, because he greets me 
every morning in my castle with the warm grip of the 
hand and the cheery voice and the pleasant face of old 
times. He has not grown old since then, and I . . . 

February 15, 1868. 



THE TEAPOT. 




E were all sitting at the table together. All 
told, we were ten, viz: Celeste and her maid- 
en aunt, who had a sorrow when she was 
young, a blighted affection, or something of that sort; 
Aurelia, now Mrs. Peplum; Mr. Peplum, who has be- 
come much more sedate since his family affair with Au- 
relia; Aurelia' s mother, who is getting old and rather 
fussy; Blanche, and young Boosey, who is sweet on 
Blanche; Old Blobbs, the Water street indigo mer- 
chant, and Mrs. Blobbs; and myself. 

"As I was about to say when I was interrupted, the 
teapot" .... 

Here I was again interrupted by young Boosey, who 
was filling himself to repletion with brandied peaches, 
and who rather scornfully remarked to Old Blobbs that 
tea might do well enough for old women, but that, for 
a steady diet, he preferred champagne punches. Old 
Blobbs silenced him by telling him that if he spent less 
for champagne punches, it would be for the interest of 
his landlady. 

The rebuke was severe, but just. 

As I was about to say when I was interrupted the 
second time, the teapot is one of the strongest links in 



A Reminiscence, 97 

the chain of society. If my friend Blobbs, across the 
way, will recall his youthful days, he will confess that 
all his subsequent prosperity and happiness are due to 
the teapot. He will remember that in those days, 
when, strange as it may seem, he was addicted to By- 
ronic collars and bad rhymes, he accompanied the fu- 
ture Mrs. Blobbs home from singing-school one June 
night, and that, as they went across the fields instead of 
by the straight road, he felt excessively foolish at the 
manner in which the stars winked and blinked at each 
other. You see, my friend Blobbs thought that he was 
the first man in the world who had ever done that sort 
of thing; and my dear Mrs. Blobbs will pardon me if I 
say that she was excessively sheepish also over the fancy 
that, for the first time in the world, she was receiving 
the attentions of a young man. But the stars were used 
to it, and knew what would come of it. Ever since 
they peeped through the branches of the Tree of Know- 
ledge and saw Adam sitting up with Eve, they had been 
looking at a young man and a young woman rehearsing 
this same old story, and, my dear Blobbs, long after you 
and I are under the daisies, they will shine down upon 
young men and young women, going across the fields 
and telling the same old story. It is the only story 
which can't be printed fast enough to supply the de- 
mand. 

And my friend Blobbs will also remember that when 
they reached the gate, the air was full of the perfume of 
apple-blossoms and roses; that the bell of the village 
church over on the hill was striking eleven, and that its 
tones were borne on the night air, across the meadows, 
as softly and soothingly as if they were the audible pul- 

8 



98 The Teapot and the Future. 

sations of the moonlight; that an ofificious little insect, 
shrouded in the gloom of the fir tree in the front yard, 
was continually informing him that Katy-did; that, be- 
fore they parted, they chose a mutual star which should 
ever be their symbol and souvenir; and that when at 
last he took her little white hand in his — it was a pretty 
hand in those days, you know, Blobbs — she said : 
"Won't you come over to tea to-morrow night, Mr. 
Blobbs?" Did you refuse, Mr. Blobbs? 

He will furthermore be so good as to remember that 
he walked on air as he went home ; that he whistled as he 
went ; that all the stars in Heaven, except that particu- 
lar one, were laughing at him, and that he wouldn't 
have taken a thousand dollars for himself. 

Now I put it to you, Mr. Blobbs, as a man of honor, 
if that teapot, the next evening, did not do the business 
and make a man of you all the rest of your life. 

Blobbs looked rather uncomfortable, but I thought I 
detected some of the brilliancy of those days shining 
through all the conventionalities and financial callouses 
of his life, as he assented; and if a tear stood in the 
corner of Mrs. B.'s eye, as she looked at her consort 
in the indigo trade, it dropped immediately into the 
quince sauce and dissolved into sweetness. 

And as I passed my cup to Aurelia's mother the second 
time, with a deprecating look at Boosey, I continued : 
I know of no pleasanter sight in the world than a steam- 
ing teapot upon the tray and five or six old ladies gath- 
ered about it, who have just dropped over and brought 
their knitting. They have all made the voyage of life, 
weathered the storms and gone into old age's winter 
quarters. Life's spring will never come for them again. 



The Old Ladies. 99 

The roses will not bloom for them, and the birds will 
miss them, but the frosts and the keen winter winds 
touch them kindly; and if they sometimes regard the 
blue, lichen-covered slate stones with the unutterable 
thoughts of old age, it is only because they feel the 
first breath of the gales blowing from the eternal springs, 
inhale the faint perfumes of the asphodels and the lilies 
on the banks of the River of Life, and hear, as in a 
dream, the sounds of music from the golden harps over 
the battlements of Heaven. 

And as the cups go round and the dear old creatures 
become inspired with the delicate- aroma, how they will 
compare their rheumatisms, and backaches, and head- 
aches, and neuralgias — those inevitable signs that the 
silver cords are growing looser, and that the pitchers 
will soon be broken at the fountains ! How they will 
yearn after the days when they were young, and lament 
the decadence of the present ! How they will recall 
the scenes of fifty years ago ! (Here the maiden aunt 
let her eyes fall, and I fancied her lips quivered some). 
How they will indulge in just the slightest gossip in the 
world, meantime mysteriously shaking their frosty heads, 
but just as harmless as the rage of Mignon's canary ! 
How they will analyze and dissect the last new baby in 
the neighborhood, and lament over the weakness of its 
mother who will allow it to eat anything and every- 
thing! How they will deprecate the new-fangled no- 
tions of the young pastor who has just succeeded old 
Parson Tenthly, lately called home ! 

It is a mortifying fact that young Pastor Primrose 
does prefer to visit Blanche and Celeste, who dote upon 
him and make book-marks and slippers for him, rather 



TOO 



Primrose. 



than be obliged to listen to the catalogues of the old la- 
dies' physical and theological complaints. You see, 
Blanche and Celeste are not a severe tax upon his theo- 
logical resources, while the old ladies are. Neither can 
the old ladies see why it is necessary that the young 
clergyman should be so particular about his back hair 
and the immaculateness of his neck-tie. 

February 22, 1868. 





A MASQUE, 



ID you ask me if the Masquerade, this week, 
was a success? 
Considering that nine-tenths of the people 
who go to balls are idiots ; that carnival folly without 
carnival license is Hamlet without Hamlet; that only 
they in whose veins the blood is tropical understand 
the real esprit of the bal masque ; and that among our 
masques every man insists upon being a Harlequin and 
every woman a nondescript, showing the inevitable ten- 
dency of human nature ; — it was a success. 

It is impossible for Boosey in a masque to feel trop- 
ical. Champagne, and not blood, is the natural current 
through his veins. Disguised as a gorgeous Harlequin, 
in cap and bells, he is not at home. He is inchoate, 
crude and lonesome. He may talk soft things to the 
unknown Blanche, hanging upon his arm in the black 
tarletan, gold stars and crescent, but the liquid eyes and 
beaming face tell no story through the grinning, goggle- 
eyed pasteboard, and do not disturb the placidity of the 
manly breast of Harlequin, or make any intellectual im- 
pression upon him, further than to confirm us in our 
original statement that he is an idiot. What Boosey 
may do when the masques are off and church-yards begin 



I02 The Confessional. 

to yawn, as he and the unknown Blanche say mathis at 
the shrine of the jolly King Gambrinus, concerns us 
not. 

Neither does it concern you who are reading these 
lines, who never take your masque off at all. 

Although my German friends sandwiched their carni- 
val into a funny place, making sin follow repentance, 
and mixing up scarlet Mardi Gras and gray Ash Wed- 
nesday with a frightful negligence of proprieties, it was 
enjoyable and delightfully sinful. Celeste, when she 
came to my confessional the other day, complained of 
it. She was clad in russet and serge, had sprinkled her- 
self with ashes, was mortifying the flesh by concealing 
those white shoulders and marble arms, which are the 
envy of our set, and eating lentils as if she liked them. 
Could I do anything but pity her when she cried pecca- 
VI, mea culpa, mea culpa. And as she told me, with 
those pretty lips, of her melon-colored dress, how su- 
perbly it hung ; of her pearl neck-lace, which actually 
looked dark on her neck ; of an unknown cavalier, who 
whispered something transporting over his bouquet, and 
then vanished ; of the wild waltz with Mephisto, whose 
sneering gibes were alchemized into delicious flattery — 
and as the Dear Creature told me that she had followed 
too much the devices and desires of her own heart, and 
that all was vanity, was it a wonder that I, even in the 
garb of the confessor, cheered and consoled her, and 
said: 

My dear young friend, the only trouble with you is 
that Divine Providence, instead of Canova, made you, 
and, in making you, gave you a human nature. He 
was also at fault in making flowers that die of their own 



The Mo7'alists. 103 

sweetness, and grapes that burst of their own voluptu- 
ousness, and swans that expire in their own melody. 
The moralists have got hold of you, my dear, and, with 
their mallets and chisels, are trying to make you into a 
cold, senseless, white statue of virtue, while all the while 
the blood is bounding to your finger-tips, and every pul- 
sation of your heart is in waltz tempo. Enjoy your car- 
nivals, my dear, for soon come the snow and the chil- 
ling winds, which will wrinkle your pretty face, and film 
your bright eyes, and turn those white shoulders to 
parchment, and deaden all the fire of life. Then may 
you wrap yourself in your black robes and weep over 
the dead carnivals in the gray ashes. 

And if you know of any of your friends who are so 
miserably unfortunate as to be without fault, let them 
cast stones at you. I may say, entre nous, that I do not 
think you will be much hurt. The stone-throwing will ' 
be the feeblest you ever saw. 

And the Dear Creature went away, as one not utterly 
bereft of consolation. 

March 7, 1868. 



THE MIRACLE OE CREATION. 




E were sitting at the opera the other evening, 
Celeste and I. Celeste was enmiyee. Not even 
the Garden music of Faust — music which so 
deftly pictures the grand struggle between the Angel and 
the Fiend, which is waged on the battle-field of each 
man's soul — music which so vividly paints the lapse 
from guilelessness to guilt; not even the closing duo, 
an outburst of sensuous rapture with an under-tone of 
the wildest despair, seemed to have any effect upon 
her. So she twirled her fan impatiently, flirted with 
Fitz-Herbert opposite, through her lorgnette, and list- 
lessly pulled the waxen petals out of the camelia in her 
bouquet. 

And she turned to me and said: "Don't you think 
this is very stupid ? Everything is so blase. I would 
give a year of my life for a new sensation. How happy 
Eve must have been, when everything was bright and 
fresh and new, and for the first time;" and, the camelia 
destroyed, she commenced upon roses and heliotropes. 
And, after the opera, I freed my mind to the Dear 
Creature, upon the foolish idea — which not only she but 
the majority of people have — that the world was any 
brighter or fresher, or any more for the first time, in the 
days of Adam and Eve than now, speaking somewhat 
after the following fashion: 



The First Time. 105 

My dear Celeste, the fault is not in the world, but in 
yourself, that nothing seems bright, and fresh, and new. 
The miracle of creation and the process of life are new 
every morning and every evening, and are performed 
for the first time for each human being, yourself in- 
cluded. But you have allowed conventionality and 
form and artificiality to dim your eyes, destroy your 
taste, and blunt all your sensibilities. The world is just 
as beautiful, the mountains just as grand, the flowers 
just as lovely, the streams just as sparkling, the songs of 
the birds just as sweet, this spring day of 1868, Anno 
Domini, as they were on the same spring day of the year 
I, Ante Christum. Adam and Eve saw them for the 
first time, and you are seeing them for the first time. 
The first sunrise which Adam and Eve saw, as they took 
their morning walk in the garden, was not a whit more 
beautiful than the sunrise this morning; and if that was' 
given to them for the first time, this was given to you 
for the first time — only your eyes, albeit they are very 
pretty, are totally blind to the fact; and, equally, the 
light of the sunset which filtered through the leaves of 
the trees, and stained the whole flowery floor of the Gar- 
den with golden glory, what time the first man and 
woman said vespers in God's grand temple of Nature, 
was not more golden than that which flooded the earth 
last evening, what time, my dear, you were yawningly 
doing up your back-hair, preparatory to Mrs. Fitz- 
Boodle's hop, utterly unconscious that there was a sun in 
the heavens, or that Nature was painting for you for 
the first time the miracle of a sunset, which she did for 
Adam for the first time. 

The same analogy holds good in all the operations of 



io6 The Miracle of Death. 

life. Eve, holding the wicked Cain in the cradle of 
her arms, experienced the same joys and griefs of ma- 
ternity ; the same concentration of all that is beautiful in 
the world, in the blue eyes of the nestling; the same 
mysterious yearnings; the same strong, deep love; the 
same foreboding pain that is experienced by the last 
fair-browed mother "in marble halls," or by some 
tawny, wild-eyed Indian mother, crooning weird songs 
to her little one under torrid palms. 

And when, my dear Madame, you laid your little 
Johnny or Susie, all covered with immortelles and rose- 
buds, under the violets ; or when you received a letter, 
written in a strange hand, that your first and only one, 
who had grown to man's estate, and who went sailing 
over the seas, was down among the sea-tangles and the 
corals; when, as by a sudden breath, every light of 
joy was blown out; when that terrible silence of death 
lay on the household ; when, in the night watches, you - 
listened for some tidings from that far-off shore of the 
To Be, whither the child had sailed all alone, without 
your watchful care over him ; when it seemed to you 
that the heavens should be hung with black, and you 
wondered that the sun could shine, and the birds sing, 
and men and women come and go as if nothing had oc- 
curred — when all this happened, you were experiencing, 
for the first time, the same feelings that Eve experienced 
for the first time, as she looked into the stark face of 
Abel. 

March 24, 18G8 



FASHIONABLE WEDDINGS. 




WAS sitting last evening in the library, ab- 
sorbed in that wonderful book of Auerbach's 
— "On the Heights ' ' — 2, book which always has 
the charm of being new whenever I take it up, and al- 
ways gives me some fresh insight into the beauties of 
this world, and the sublimity of human nature. It was 
twilight, the time to read it. Minerva on the one shelf 
was drowsily nodding at Clytie on the other, and Dante 
on his bracket was looking out of the window into the 
sky, as if momentarily expecting Beatrice to float lu- 
minously down in shining garments. The flowers in 
the window were shutting up their petals for the night. 
And thus we sat there — Auerbach, Clytie, Minerva, 
Dante, the flowers, and I ; and as the lines of the book 
dimmed over in the receding light, our star appeared 
goldening in the Western sky, just over the crimson of 
the dying day. 

When who should walk in but the Dear Children, 
Boosey and Celeste, arm in arm ! Minerva at once 
woke up and looked wisely at B., and my calla, which 
always recognizes Celeste as a butterfly, leaned lovingly 
towards her, as if inviting her to fly into her milk-white 
bosom and sleep there for the night". 



io8 Public Vulgarity. 

They cautiously and modestly informed me of their 
engagement, and had come to ask me for some advice 
relative to the wedding and how it should be celebra- 
ted. Whereupon I laid Auerbach down, and spoke to 
them somewhat after the following manner: 

My Dear Children, I will give you some views on 
weddings in general, which you may apply to your own 
case. While it is eminently proper to invite personal 
friends to a wedding, and the more the merrier, avoid 
publicity. Publicity in private matters inevitably tends 
towards snobbishness, and often towards vulgarity. You 
may lay the gilt on vulgarity just as thickly as you 
please and it will only make it the more glaring, just as 
the process of varnishing a poor picture makes its de- 
fects more obvious. A wedding will always be public 
enough without any courting of publicity, and it is a 
very poor way of starting off in life, by trying to outdo 
some one else in the way of show and expense. It is 
like throwing out your ace of trumps without stopping 
to see whether you have got suit in your hand to win the 
game with. The lavish expenditure of money on a 
wedding, merely to outdo some one else, is only for 
popular effect, and what is done only for popular effect 
is very apt to be vulgar. By vulgarity, of course I do 
not mean anything that is morally wrong, but simply 
common and snobbish. The motive is a very cheap 
one, and is apparent to the most superficial observer; 
and the least justifiable occasion for the exercise of that 
motive is a wedding, which should be free from tinsel 
and frippery. An event so important, and in a certain 
degree so sacred, should be celebrated with a delicacy 
and dignity befitting its character. It is the turning- 



Publicity. 109 

point for weal or wo in two lives, and it is not well to 
make it a public show. The occasions in society-life 
for display of gilt and gingerbread, sugar candy and 
gewgaws, are amply sufficient, without seizing upon the 
hymeneal altar and exhibiting the sacred fire to a cu- 
rious public, with blare of trumpets and glare of 
trappings. 

One of the worst features of our fashionable weddings 
is the insane desire of the parties to it to make their 
appearance in the public prints, and figure with stunning 
head-lines among the announcements of the last raid 
upon gamblers, police court trials, sensational divorces, 
murders, rapes and suicides. The avidity with which 
this publicity is sought will be astonishing to the gen- 
eral reader. In some instances printed, and in others 
written invitations, have been sent to the reporters of 
the daily press, stating the exact time and place when 
and where they can visit the dressmaker and have the 
mysteries of the bridal toilet explained to them, when 
and where they can inspect other toilets, and when and 
where they can see the wedding gifts and be informed 
of their nature and cost; all of which, of course, will 
be unfolded in due time to the admiring public, and 
small female vanity and large female curiosity will be 
gratified. 

Unless, as is always the case, reporters are human and 
printers capricious; whereupon it happens that great 
expectations are not always realized — as, for instance, 
when that diamond pin, which cost $2,000, appears in 
print at the ridiculously small figure of ^200; when 
Mrs. Croesus, who has devoted days of toil and nights 
of anxiety, and has distracted her dressmakers over her 



no Reportorial Mistakes, 

superb silk — who has flattered herself upon the sensation 
her point lace will make, and the universal admiration 
which will greet her diamond set — appears in print clad 
in blue tarletan, with Brussels lace and pearl jewelry ; 
when the two thousand invitations appear on paper as 
two hundred; when the reporter, who came late, mis- 
takes a bridesmaid for the bride, and goes into glowing 
raptures over the loveliness of the young creature ; when 
another reporter, who has not had an opportunity ot 
writing up the gifts beforehand, gets into a chaos ot 
ormolu clocks, bronzes, and silverware, and mixes them 
up indiscriminately; when John Thomas, the family 
driver, who is not free from the failings of human nature 
any more than his superiors, by a quiet little reportorial 
bribe, or a secret visit to the place so dear to every 
well-organized reporter — the wine cellar — gets his name 
mentioned for the graceful manner in which he presided 
over the white ribbons and the rosetted steeds; when 
all these things happen, as happen they will, and people 
laugh, then the great expectations are not realized ; and 
Mrs. Midas, who lives next door to Mrs. Croesus, had a 
small difficulty with her and was not invited to the wed- 
ding, has her revenge. 

Un general principles, this avidity of people to get 
their garments advertised in the public prints, while it 
may minister to their foolish vanity, is pernicious in its 
effects, and a positive injury to society. It has one of 
two effects. It will either keep a great many ladies 
away from places of public amusement, who cannot af- 
ford to dress in a showy manner, and are too sensitive 
to have their plain toilets spread before the universal 
eye; or it will encourage them to foolishly fling away 



Avoiding Show, ' iii 

money, in order that they ipay make a presentable ap- 
pearance. And beyond these effects, it directly en- 
courages, or rather compels a competition in dress which 
is ruinous to good taste, not to speak of purses. 

And now, my Dear Children, let me advise you to 
avoid all show. A house full of wedding presents and 
dear friends, and detectives to watch the costly presents, 
lest the dear friends steal them, is not desirable. A 
wedding trousseau constructed regardless of expense, to 
outdo some other trousseau and to create popular effect, 
is very vulgar. A lavish display of diamonds and sil- 
ver, and glittering gewgaws, exhibited merely for osten- 
tation, may make your curious friends envious, but it 
will make your judicious friends grieve. A clean flag- 
stone walk to the church will not injure your dainty 
feet any more than the Brussels carpet, and I would not 
favor your feet too much, for they may have to walk in 
some very flinty places yet. It is well, also, to have 
some regard to the proprieties of the church itself, and 
not transform it so much, that if St. Paul should happen 
to drop in, he wouldn't know whether he was in a cir- 
cus or a menagerie. 

I always tremble for the bride who starts off in life in 
this manner. We cannot always float smoothly along, 
reclining on velvet cushions, with favoring winds swell- 
ing silken sails, and golden oars keeping time to music. 
It has been discreetly ordered that reverses shall over- 
take us all before we get into the snug haven of old age. 
And in that night of tempests, when the whole heavens 
seem shutting grimly down, and not a star of hope can 
peep through the wild wrack, the fate of a Canary bird 
in a thunder-storm is the fate of this bride. The first 



112 Ready for the Storm. 

move is the key to all the rest. It is well, therefore, to 
have that move made calmly, deliberately and thought- 
fully, without any reference to the opinions or the curi- 
osities of others, with all the contingencies of life steadi- 
ly in view, and with the two lives in one, braced and 
fortified to meet them. 

My say was ended, and as Boosey and Celeste thanked 
me and went out seriously, she with a little faster hold 
upon his arm, and he with a firmer look of resolution 
upon his face, as if he were mentally bidding good bye 
to his follies, I sent my blessing out with them, for I was 
sure that he would get the vessel into such good trim 
that he and the Butterfly would be uninjured in any 
storm. 

March 28, 1868. 




APRIL. 




iiLTHOUGH this snivelling humbug, April, as I 
write, has spread out one of the bluest and 
softest of skies, and is coaxing the leaves to 



unroll their little green packages, and the grass to shoot 
up through the brown sod, and the birds to come up 
from the warm South, I can only say with the Rabbi in 
Uriel Acosta, "We have seen all this before." 

She has dallied so long with that wild roysterer, 
March, that there is suspicion in the hem of her gar- - 
ments. She has indulged in boisterous and disgraceful 
revelries with him. She has listened to his bold license 
of speech. She has allowed him entrance at unseason- 
able hours. And she comes from the contact, no longer 
the coy, bashful, weeping maiden of yore, but a bold, 
unblushing hoyden, clothing herself to-day in her old 
beauty and softness, but still with the vile breath of 
March upon her lips. 

And, worst of all, while couched in the fierce passion 
of March, she forgot her old friends who have never 
forgotten her, and so the buds were blasted, and the 
birds who had listened to her syren song died, and the 
flowers turned over and went back to their odorous 
sleep; and the arbutus which should be now showing 
its little pink and white face, under the dead leaves, 

9 



114 '^^^^ Birds. 

shrunk back affrighted from her, as she went noisily 
through the woods, boasting her shame in the robes 
with which March covered her nakedness as he thrust 
lier away. 

It is only a i^w Sundays ago that I told you of the 
little blue trumpeter who was heralding spring from the 
dry boughs. He, too, was sacrificed, and yesterday I 
saw him lying upon his back in the brown stubble, his 
claws bent with the pain of the cold, the light of his 
eyes quenched, his song forever hushed, and his soul 
fled to the Bird Heaven, where all the good blue birds, 
robins, orioles, and nightingales go ; where they sing 
forever among the asphodels and in the lotuses to those 
who loved them and cared for them among the elms 
and the oaks; and where all the little captives who are 
caged here below regain their liberty and soar and sing 
untrammelled. 

The blue trumpeter suffered the fate of all reformers. - 
He came before his time. He was heralding the truth 
before the world was ready for it, and he died unheard 
and neglected. And hundreds of other heralds are 
lying dead to-day in the fields, victims to the merciless 
rigor of the rain and the snow and the cold. 

And I therefore plead for all the birds who have come 
to us from the South. Shelter them whenever you can. 
Feed them and care for them. Summer, without its 
choir of birds, will be as blank as heaven without stars, 
a house without a child, a garden without flowers. The 
clearest indications of Paradise we get on earth, are the 
birds, the flowers, and the little children, and the man 
or woman who doesn't love them will have a trying time 
in Paradise, if he or she ever gets there. 



The Other Place. 



115 



I have never seen it recorded that they have any of 
these things in the other place. 

Therefore, again I say, deal gently with the birds and 
the flowers, for not a sparrow falls to the ground with- 
out His notice, and Solomon in all his glory was not 
arrayed like the lilies of the fields. 

April IT, 1868. 




A SUMMER REVERIE. 




ilAN you inform me why it was necessary for 
every man, woman and child whom I have 
met to-day, to remind me that it was hot ? 
Why had all these people the right to assume that I did 
not know it was hot ? 

I am serious on this subject. I have been used this 
way before. I am continually informed by somebody 
that it is hot, or it is cold, or it rains, or it snows. To 
be informed once in the course of twenty-four hours 
that it is hot, is bad enough of itself; but to be apprised 
of that fact by every person you meet, is an improper 
interference with the funeral. 

Now, for the benefit of the public at large, which is 
so eager to inform me that it is hot, I want to an- 
nounce that I know it is hot. My knowledge on that 
score is positive, large and satisfactory. I am prepared, 
if necessary, to make a statement in writing that it is 
hot ; to get me to a notary and make affidavit that it is 
hot. 

Do I not know that it is hot, sitting here, with a vista 
of brick walls on every side, from which the sun glares 
at me; fanned through the open window by zephyrs, 
which bear on their wings nothing less cooling than 



In the Woods. 117 

coal snioke and caloric; with the hot whirling of ma- 
chinery on one side and the rumble of the dusty, swel- 
tering street on the other ? Through an open space in 
the walls, I can see a patch of sky as large as a lady's 
pocket-handkerchief, across which bits of cloud go with 
thoughts of rain in them; and with the infinite longing 
with which poor Marie Stuart watched the clouds which 
were floating across from her prison to France, and 
as she, prisoned in Fotheringay, sent her thoughts and 
wishes by those cloudy messengers, with that kind of 
longing, I think of distant fields and woods, of cooling 
waters and leafy shades to which they are hastening, 
and so I send messages to the trees, and the rocks, and 
the flowers, and to the least living thing that "praises 
God by rubbing its legs together," as Thackeray so fine- 
ly puts it. 

On such a day as this, it would be supreme delight to 
eat lotus in the woods ; to lie, stretched prone upon the 
grass, in the grateful shade, with no heavier task than to 
watch a sluggish beetle, or an ant carrying its burden, 
in imminent danger of collision with every tiny stalk; 
to listen to all the sounds in nature's orchestra, the 
stringed instruments of the insects floating in the air, 
and the reeds of the insects crawling in the grass, the 
flutes of the birds, the horns of the wind blowing 
through the tree-tops, and all those sweet, indefinable 
sounds you only hear when your ear is close to the 
ground, but which play their part in the grand sympho- 
ny; to lie upon the grass, with not a sound from the 
great v/orld jarring upon your Arcadia ; to dream of Sa- 
tyrs, and Fauns, and wood-nymphs, and water-nymphs, 
and the great god Pan, piping upon his pastoral reeds; 
9* 



Ii8 Memoi'ics. 

to think of absent friends who are thinking of you, and 
will return, and of absent friends who are thinking of 
you, but will never return, as no road leads back from 
that country whither they have journeyed, and the 
daisies tell no stories, nor even the rustle of the grass 
which grows above them ; to remember a chord of mu- 
sic long forgotten, and let its subtle melancholy weave a 
vision in the Past, when the chord was a sound and not 
a sigh, and the vision was a reality and not a shadow. 
And to let the little bugs crawl in your ear and shiver 
the whole beautiful Dream-Fabric. 

June 13, 1868. 




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rZT^ GERMANS AND MUSIC. 




|0 make a good German, four things are requi- 
site, viz : Music, beer, Rhine wine and Ge- 
imiethlichkeit. In regard to the first and last 
qualities, I think that I am half a German. For four 
days past, I have been trying to achieve the other two 
qualities, and thus Teutonize myself in toto. 

I have fought the white beer of Berlin with an energy 
worthy of a better cause. I have wrestled with the red 
beer of Chicago. I have struggled with Hocheimer, 
Rudesheimer and Johannisberg, until I was Black, White 
and Red in the face, and hung out the German flag in 
my countenance. I have wished, with Mein Herr Von 
Dunk, that my trough was as deep as the rolling Zuyder 
Zee. But when I had accomplished my fifth glass of 
the mantling beer with internal satisfaction, and then 
beheld a German friend call for his thirtieth, just by way 
of an appetizer for the half barrel he had ordered, I saw 
at once the futility of my undertaking. 

In fact, I was not equal to the beer capacity of a 
small German baby, and when I saw great, jolly Teu- 
tons, flaxen-haired, deep-lunged and stout-handed, with 
a whole case of Rhenish hidden away under their jack- 
ets, is it proper for me to allude to the poor little bottle 



I20 Beer. 

of Steinberger I had demolished, or to have any other 
feeling in regard to that feat than one of intense morti- 
fication? The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. 
Nature was against me. 

On the tenth glass of beer, the German is serene; on 
the twentieth, he is philosophical and will discuss the 
problem of how many angels can stand upon the point 
of a needle ; on the thirtieth, he is full of Briiderlichkcit ; 
on the fortieth, he reaches Freiheit ; on the fiftieth, he 
will troll you a Trinklied in the manner of Hermanns 
with his Golden Calf; on the sixtieth he is a little 
weary, but his heart is in the right place, and he pro- 
nounces zwei glass with a strong emphasis on the zwei; 
on the seventieth, he is tired, but he recovers from it 
with the eightieth; on the ninetieth, he feels ^// and 
on the hundredth he is himself again, yr/>r/^,_^r/ 7/;^.'/ 
froh, and is then prepared to drink some beer with you, 
to sing you one of Abt's best, to criticise a statue, or 
discuss the everlasting essence of the negative pole of 
infinity. Set him down to the glorious Rhenish vintages 
and the pile of old bottles he will leave behind him 
would have gone a great ways towards building the 
tower of Babel. 

Your German is essentially a talker, and it is astonish- 
ing, considering the "schs," and "achs," and "ichs," 
and other gutturals distressing to an American windpipe, 
which are continually in his way, how much ground he 
will talk over in an hour. He talks with his tongue, his 
arms and his legs, and throws in the punctuation points 
as he goes along, with nods of his head. When he is 
the most social and affectionate, when his heart warms 
towards you, then he appears as if he were immediately 



Fatherland. 121 

about to demolish you, and the more affectionate he 
grows, the more alarmed you become for your personal 
safety and anxious to inform your family that you may 
be brought home feet foremost. A company of Ger- 
mans together, when they are inspired with Genmeth- 
Uchkeit, and when social feeling is at its highest tem- 
perature, exactly resemble Americans at the other ex- 
treme, preparing for a general fight, and you wonder the 
police do not interfere. And vice versa, when the Ger- 
man is excited to pugnacity, he does not seem to be ex- 
cited at all. He appears to be serene, but beneath all 
the calm outside there is a terrible rage. 

The German is addicted to Fatherland, and if any 
human being on the face of the earth has a right to be, 
it is the German. If any other nationality has a better 
literature, grander poets, more inspired dreamers, sub- 
limer musicians, better artists, or deeper thinkers, I have 
not heard of it. The ties which bind him to the Father- 
land are too strong ever to be broken, and on the in- 
visible strings which stretch from his heart to Germany 
are continually sounding the home melodies. Could 
any more beautiful idea be conceived than the fact that 
on Friday evening, when the grand chorus at the Fest 
Hall* were singing the glorious German poem, "What 
is the German's Fatherland," in every part of Germany, 
in every city, village and hamlet, wherever there was a 
singing society, this same song was being sung on the 
same evening, in honor of their brethren assembled at 
Chicago? 

We may laugh at the peculiarities of the Germans, 

*The Northwestern SaeDgerfest, held at Chicago, June, 1868. 



122 German Art. 

but when we approach German art, it must give us 
pause. Berhoz and Scribe took the skull of a fool, who 
had once laughed at the incantation music of Der Frei- 
schutz, and when the orchestra had reached that point, 
placed it before them and said: "Now, laugh if you 
dare. The music of Von Weber is thundering round 
you." No man who was not destitute of a soul, and 
utterly wedded to all gross things, could have felt any 
other than a religious feeling in the great swell of human 
voices on Thursday evening, as it surged in great waves 
of harmony, as it rose like the march of a storm in the 
Battle Hymn of Rienzi, full of martial inspiration and 
clarion cries, or died away in the gentle and placid 
melody of the Lindenbaum of Schubert, sweetest of all 
song-writers. The man who could go away from that 
concert without feeling that he was a better man, with- 
out having recognized that human nature may soar to 
the infinite on the wings of song, has sunk his soul so 
far into the uncleaness of life, that Gabriel will have 
some difficulty in finding it, what time he sounds his 
final trumpet call. 

The Fest was a notable event, from the bare fact that 
it gave us the immortal Seventh Symphony of Beethoven, 
about which the critics and rhapsodists have loved to 
dream in searching for its hidden meaning, and around 
which they have woven so many delicate and tender 
fancies. No two persons probably will ever agree upon 
the exact event it is intended to illustrate, but it seems 
to me that there is one idea which must be patent to 
all. To me, the Seventh Symphony appears to be a 
true picture of a beautiful life — its allegro full of the 
longings and joyousness of youth ; its allegretto filled 



The Seventh Symphony. \'i2i 

with the delicious melancholy of love; its scherzo buoy- 
ant with the gladness and ecstacy of living; and its 
final allegro summing all up in a climax of contentment 
and hope. It seems to me that when the grand old 
Master, the Jupiter Tonans of music, whose soul pierced 
the sublimity of the infinite, wrote this symphony, he 
must have forgotten all the trials and troubles of life. 
All the joy of nature, her sunlight and breezes, and the 
hidden melodies of inanimate things; all the glow and 
elasticity of life's morning; a passionate love for some 
golden-haired Gretchen ; a rhythm to which fairies 
might have danced in the moonlight, seem to me to be 
expressed in this wonderful production — the whole 
bathed in sunlight and clothed with supernatural beauty. 
In the Seventh Symphony, Beethoven does not sadden 
you with the profound melancholy, or inspire you with 
the sublimity of some of his works, but he gives you new 
ideas of the beauty and joy of living. And as I sat list- 
ening to the masterly performance of the Allegretto by 
the great orchestra — every player's face lit up with the 
enthusiasm of the music — every instrument moving in 
perfect precision — the whole air full of the bewitching, 
almost supernatural music — there occurred to me a let- 
ter which I have received this v/eek, in which the writer 
wants to know if it is the duty of a Christian to encour- 
age the Saengerfest. Although the letter was signed "A 
Christian," — in the presence of the great Master's work 
the question seemed to me utterly profane. Why ! 
Music is full of religion ! The first tidings that ever 
came from Heaven to man came in music on the plains 
of Bethlehem. It reaches far down into the soul. It 
fills it with longings for the Unknown. It reveals the 



124 LtUher^s Platform. 

Infinite more clearly than the spoken word. Its ten- 
dency is upward. It gives birth to aspirations. It 
makes a true man, truer. It makes a bad man, better. 
If the writer of that letter does not appreciate music, 
let me commend to him the dictum of the father of 
modern Protestantism : 

"• Who loves not wine, woman and song, 
KemaitiB a fool his whole life long." 

I should not care to deny that Martin Luther was a 
Christian, even in the face of his rather generous plat- 
form — in fact, his specifications would rather go to show 
that he was. I would advise my letter-writing friend, 
therefore, if he cannot love wine and woman, at least to 
love song, and see if it does not make a better Christian 
out of him. I think he could love every plank in Mar- 
tin Luther's platform, and still be as good a Christian as 
Martin Luther was, and pitch ink-stands at the devil 
quite as vigorously. Before a man is thoroughly fitted 
for Heaven, he ought to be thoroughly fitted for earth. 
A great many people who think themselves good enough 
for Heaven, and are all the time wanting to go there, 
are not half good enough for earth. It is sheer ingrati- 
tude to Divine Providence — this lifting of the eyes so 
high as never to see the sublime world He has placed 
you in, with its never-ending scenes of beauty and sub- 
limity, and never to see this life with its joys and possi- 
bilities. Fling your theologies to the winds. Unloosen 
your stiff neck. Don't forever snuff evil in everything 
around you. Up, and out into the world. Throw 
yourself into the arms of the loving mother, Nature, 
and see if there is no religion in her eyes. Get to the 
secret heart of music, and see if it is not anchored hard 



The Remedy. 



125 



by the eternal throne. Draw yourself closer to human- 
ity and to universal brotherhood, and see if there is no 
religion in it. If your soul does not expand in the ope- 
ration, and if it does not make a better Christian out of 
you,* then you are hardly good enough for this world, 
and the sooner you are out of it the better. 

June 20, 186S. 




THE OLD STORY. 




N these fast days of the period, when human 
life is of so little account that we sever its frail 
thread with as little compunction as we would 
pick a flower from its stem; when, in our hot haste, 
we drain the cup clear to the bitter lees, and, disap- 
pointed, plunge ourselves into the outer darkness; when 
a mist of error and frenzy settles down upon us, so dense 
that it hides from our gaze all that is True and Beauti- 
ful; when, in all the heavens, there is only the angri- 
ness of driving clouds, and no star shining — in these fast 
days, the mere recital of a solitary case, where a tired 
human being has gone to rest voluntarily, rather than 
bear the great burden of agony and scorn upon her 
weak shoulders any longer, only causes the indulgence 
of a moment's curiosity and wonderment. The case 
published in the columns of the Tribune this morning, 
of the suicide of "Augusta," seems to me, however, one 
over which we should pause and think. 

Very little is given of her history, and yet enough to 
indicate that she was but eighteen years of age — that 
time in life when the world is clad in its brightest 
colors, when the heart is full of hope and the body full 
of the buoyancy of youth ; that she was very intelligent ; 



Desej^ted. 127 

that she was very pretty; that she was very amiable, 
and beloved by all who knew her ; that she had been 
utterly deserted by a brute; and that she still wanted to 
live — for, in her sad note, she says: "And yet, if there 
seemed the shadow of a hope to regain your love, once 
so true and tender, I would longer suffer the agony you 
have so ruthlessly thrown upon me." 

To me, there is something inexpressibly sad in that 
last note: 

"My Darling Percy: The dark clouds are gathering 
around the little girl you once loved, and who still 
clings to you in hope that your heart will soften; but, 
oh ! dear one, to suffer the agony of this suspense is 
worse than death. You trifled with my susceptible 
heart, but I forgive you. I court death; and yet, if 
there seemed the shadow of a hope to regain your love, 
once so true and tender, I would longer suffer the agony 
you have so ruthlessly thrown upon me. O, come, 
come ! Press me to your heart again, and then let me 
die. Loving and true, 

Augusta." 

Deserted ! And, alone in the world, she attempts to 
ward off, with her weak, little hands, those dark clouds 
gathering around her. Deserted ! She still clings to 
all he has left her — a bitter memory. Deserted ! She 
bears an agony which is worse than death. Deserted ! 
She still loves and forgives him, who has utterly blotted 
out her bright young life. Deserted ! She would still 
bear the great agony, if there was only the shadow of a 
hope that, at some day, she might regain that love. 
Deserted ! And from her white lips comes that last 
mournful appeal — "Come! come! and let me die" — 



128 Wojnan^s Love. 

and then utter despair sets in, which is only another 
name for utter madness, for when hope dies, the Hght of 
reason goes out, too, and she goes to her death, "rash- 
ly importunate," out of the world, and out of life, to the 
arms of the Great Father. 

To the Great Father, notwithstanding the technical 
notions of my theological brethren, whose cold, hard 
formulge, in a case like this, must give way. They dare 
not assert them in the presence of this little girl, around 
whom the clouds are gathering. If they should, it 
would only argue a soul which has run entirely to brain. 

Her last words, "loving and true," have nothing of 
the romantic about them, no flavor of the boarding- 
school, no characteristic of the gushing young misses 
just into their teens and chignons. It is the full strength 
of a woman's love, which knows no abatement, even in 
the face of scorn, abuse and desertion. If, by an ex- 
ceedingly remote possibility, this little girl should meet- 
her betrayer in Paradise, I do not believe she would 
avert her face. The vine clings to the tree when its 
trunk is sturdy with sap and its branches are full of 
leaves and nests, and it clings to it, also, when it is only 
a jagged stump, riven and shattered by the lightnings. 

The force of this passion is best illustrated by the fact 
that there could be no compensation but death, for the 
loss of its object; no compensation in all this great 
world, with its beauty of sunrises, woods, rivers and 
mountains. The flowers bloomed no longer for her. 
There was no soothing in the melancholy of music. The 
stars in Heaven went out. All sweet sounds grew 
strangely silent. It was a living death. She stretched 
out her hand for help, and it only met the cold hand of 



Companionless. 129 

a dead love. She could only see in the darkness the 
ghost of a memory. There was only one escape out of 
this passion, and that way she fled — and it led out of 
life. 

The great world moves on undisturbed. The great 
woods are not disturbed when a single leaf drops off a 
tree and flutters down to its death. The eagle, in his 
flight, does not miss a feather that drops from his plu- 
mage. Men will still buy and sell, and women will gos- 
sip and dress. We shall all walk, and talk, and sing, 
and dance, and flirt, and laugh, each in our own little 
world, happy as ever, so long as dark Care does not ride 
behind the horseman. 

But among us there will be one who can never again 
go companionless. There is a ghost forever chained to 
him, which he cannot shake off. It will sit by him and 
follow him into the land of dreams. It will walk by his 
side. It will echo his faintest whisper and his loudest 
laugh. He may wander like Ahasuerus, but he cannot 
escape from it. He may plunge into excess, but he will 
see its face at the bottom of every cup. There is no 
place so remote, under the blessed heavens, where he 
can escape from it. There is no darkness so intense 
that he will not see its sad, reproachful eyes looking at 
him. It will follow him here, to meet him There. He 
carries his punishment with him forever. In Faustus, 
there is an account of a memorable banquet given by 
Satan, at which the viands were composed of souls 
cooked in divers ways, and the wines were the tears of 
those who had suffered on earth — a glowing story it is, 
told in excellent fashion, which I would commend to 
him. I need not urge this handsomely-named man to 
10 



130 The Epitaph. 

think sometimes of his victim. He will have no diffi- 
culty in remembering, but very much in forgetting. A 
man who commits murder is not very apt to forget. 
Society conveniently glosses over these crimes with mild 
names, but the crime is just the same. Society indi- 
vidually knows, and he knows, that he has committed 
murder, just as surely as if he had plunged a knife into 
his victim, whose only crime was love. 

I think it would be an excellent practice, in these 
cases, to place upon the tombstone some stich epitaph 
as this : 

5-acrci to tl)c iUcmori) 



OP 



Augusta, 

Murdered In her 18th year by Percy. 



) Beautiful, Intelligent and Amiable, but was gtrilty of 
LOVE. 




IN MEMORIAM. 




0-DAY, in this crystal atmosphere, in these 
glorious, invigorating breaths from the North, 
full of suggestions of cool pine woods — of 
brooks dancing over the shallows — of rivers flashing 
down to the great lakes — of a fisherman rocking upon 
the waves — of breezes which have journeyed all the way 
from the pole, whispering stories to the trees of the 
weird things done in the Northern glow — in this per- 
fection of a new-created day, created for the first time 
for you and for me, thus ever renewing the Avonder of 
the first morning, life is no longer a burden, but a 
blessing. Not the life social, mental or moral, but the 
life physical. The mere fact of living, of breathing, of 
feeling the blood coursing in your veins, of allying 
yourself with the waves of the lake, which are sparkling 
with smiles; with the leaves, which are dancing on the 
tree-tops; with the flowers bursting into richer bloom, 
and lifting up their drooping cups to catch the wine of 
the morning ; with the birds, curving through the in- 
vigorating air; with the insects, no longer droning their 
hot, dry notes in the burnt grass, but making a Babel of 
little sweet sounds in every hillock; the mere fact of 
living in this world, when every tint, from the Iris in a 



132 In Memoriam. 

foam-bell to the haze on a hill-side, is perfect ; when 
every sound, from the buzz of a grasshopper to the dia- 
pason of the waves or the swell of the wind-smitten 
trees, is in unison, is a blessing. On such a day, Dona- 
tello, the Faun, would have called the animals to him 
with that universal language which makes us and them 
kin. On such a day, Memnon sings more grandly to 
the sun. On such a day, Heine's pine tree in the 
northern snows dreams of the palm in the burning 
sands. Such a day comes like a benediction, after the 
long, tedious sermon, and it brings with it benisons 
from the Great Father to the parched, burning leaves, 
to the poor sufferers tossing upon beds of pain, to tired, 
toiling humanity. 

The last week has been a reign of terror. It is stated 
that the birds have never died so fast, especially the 
singing birds. The flowers, too, have died. And with 
the flowers and the birds, their companions, the little 
children have passed away, until it makes one sad to 
think into how many homes a shadow has come within 
the past short week. Death, like another Herod, has 
knocked at every door, save where some protecting angel 
guards the threshold. We fain would have kept him 
out, but our hands were powerless, and in almost every 
household where he entered, he smote the youngest and 
the fairest — little eyes, in which the light of Heaven 
had never faded — little hands, untaxed by any of life's 
burdens — little feet, unstained by any of the dust of 
life's highway, in which we elder ones are so sadly be- 
grimed that we have lost much of the semblance of our 
former selves. And I think this morning that, if earth 
is sadder for the loss of the children, Heaven must be 



In Memoriam. 133 

brighter and more beautiful for the troops of little ones 
that have passed through the Gate Beautiful, and now 
walk in Paradise, among the birds and flowers which 
died when they died. And I think that, along the in- 
visible strings which stretch from our hearts to the little 
green waves of turf in the Acres of God, and thence 
reach heavenward, will come songs in the night-watch- 
es, and pulses of music we shall recognize, and, recog- 
nizing, become better men and better women. 

I am. sure that some loving angel will tenderly watch 
each of these new mounds of earth, and that, on each re- 
curring spring, we shall see the blue of their eyes in the 
blue of the violet, and the gold of their hair in the gold 
of the daisies; that we shall hear their voices in the 
songs of the robin, and that they will live for us ever- 
more, in all things beautiful. 

And may the Great Father stretch His hands in in- 
finite tenderness and blessing over all bowed heads and 
darkened homes, and in benison over all beds of suf- 
fering. 

July 25, 1868. 



Last summer, in those hot days, when the cruel 
weather killed the birds, and flowers, and little children, 
I wrote to you of the death of a little one, as fragile as 
the rose-bud she held in her little waxen hand, and how 
the sunshine was extinguished in the house when we 
carried her out and tenderly laid her away under the 
turf, on which the golden and scarlet glories of autumn 
have fallen, the storms of winter have beaten, and the 
promises of spring are now brightening. There were 



134 ^^^ Mcmoriam, 

with us, on that sad day, those to whom Heaven had 
consigned a little one, and now the messenger has come 
for it and taken it home again. In the mysterious dis- 
pensations of the Great Father, it was ordained that the 
little life of the one should flash out and expire like the 
light of the glow-worm; that the other should wear his 
life slowly out through a weary year and pass away, try- 
ing to fashion the words "Papa" and "Mamma" on 
his thin lips. The one went when the birds went and 
the flowers were fading — when the reapers were among 
the sheaves, and the golden glow of summer was dis- 
solving into the purple haze of autumn. She never 
saw the spring, except in that land where the spring is 
eternal ; just across that River we sometimes hear in the 
mists of the Valley of the Shadow, and shall some day 
day see. The other went away when the birds were 
coming, and the leaves were bursting into emerald 
bloom on the trees, and the flowers were opening their 
cups to catch the sunshine and the rain. And to-day, 
on this blessed Sabbath, the two are together again in 
that far-off land which is brought so near to us when 
the little ones go there. 

May 29, 1869. 



LAKE MICHIGAN. 




NEED not tell you of the general appearance 
of Lake Michigan. I take it for granted 
everyone knows it, but how many have studied 
it in its details, watched its rare combinations with the 
clouds, or discovered the subtle changes and colors, all 
the time at work upon its surface? 

How many, for instance, have seen the Lake when it 
was apparently all green — not its ordinary green, but a 
peculiar, light green which it only wears on state occa- 
sions, and especially at this season of the year? Your 
first glance leads you to suppose it is simply green, but 
look steadily at it, and you will find that the green is 
suffused with purple, giving a color which I do not 
think can be matched elsewhere in nature. You may 
possibly find it in some of the endless varieties of color 
in wild roses. This is the royal color of the Lake, be- 
cause the rarest. You may look for weeks and months 
and not see it, for it requires a peculiar combination of 
cloud, and wind, and sunlight to produce it. But if 
you are only patient, some day it will flash upon you in 
all its beauty, and richly repay you for waiting. 

There are days, when the hour is about sunset, and a 
gentle north-east wind is blowing, that the Lake is of a 



136 Its Dreaminess. 

light green, except a blue strip in the far north. The 
eastern horizon joins the water by an almost indefinable 
white line, as if they had been welded together, but all 
is vague and indistinct and vailed in a haze into which 
a vessel here and there melts like a phantom. There is 
hardly wind enough to form waves, but there is regular 
motion of the water — as regular as the rhythm of music 
— and in the distance you will see, now and then, a 
wave breaking white upon the shore, like the white hand 
of some spent swimmer, clutching at the sand in mortal 
agony. In the eastern sky, the lower strata of clouds 
are ragged and angular in shape, and dark gray in color, 
and only afford you glimpses, here and there, of the 
clouds above them, which are round and billowy, and 
would be white but for the roseate glow with which they 
are suffused by the sun, which is sinking into an angry 
bank of clouds, such as Dore loves to paint, like a great 
crimson stain upon the sky. Wherever the tips of these 
upper clouds appear, they cast a faint reflection upon 
the green of the water, not producing a duplicate of 
color, but bronzing the water in spots, which are con- 
tinually changing. Sometimes, for a moment, the low- 
er clouds part, and reveal a golden glory behind them, 
which, for only an instant, illumines the water beneath. 
This is peculiarly the dreamy feeling of the Lake. 
There is a dreamy tone in the wash of the waves. The 
rhythm is perfectly uniform, and the key is in accord 
with melancholy and tenderness. The flow is peaceful, 
only now and then you may hear a tone in the hazy 
distance, a little louder than the rest, like a drum-beat 
in a far-off orchestra. You may be so near the Lake 
that the foam of the spent waves will crawl over your 



Silence. 137 

feet, and their sound will still be dreamy, and apparent- 
ly in the distance. It is like nothing so much as the 
voices and the faces which come to you in the night out 
of the Past. Its cadence is mournful and yet beautiful. 
It is then the time to be alone, to cast yourself upon the 
sand and listen to the stories of these waves — stories of 
the sailors who sailed the Spanish main, and never came 
home again — of vessels which went down, and left no 
one to tell the tale — of phantom ships, which suddenly 
loom up before affrighted sailors in the darkness — of 
storms, driving their black chariots over the deep — of 
Mermaids, and Sirens, and Undines, luring on their 
victims to destruction, with their white bosoms and 
voluptuous melodies — of the beautiful fabrics you reared 
years ago — all gone, as the wave washes out the print of 
your feet in the sands. And, as you lie there and 
dream, the moon, yet silvery-gray in the early evening, 
passes behind a cloud. The distant city is hidden by a 
curtain of gray mist — hidden, with all its men and 
women, toiling, struggling, loving, cursing and praying 
— ^hidden, with all its squat misery in the alleys and by- 
ways, and with all its splendid wretchedness in the high 
places. All sounds die away. The cruel mist creeps 
over the water, and you are alone upon the sand, with 
only the melancholy moaning of the immemorial waves, 
which will moan thus when you and I are gone — which 
have moaned thus since the youth of the years. 

Have you seen the Lake when thunder-storms are 
brooding all around the horizon, and the wrath of the 
tempest is sweeping up from the west, where, in thun- 
dering caverns, the Titans are forging the bolts? You 
may, now and then, hear the clang of their hammers, 



138 TJic Storm. 

and see the fire from their anvils, what time gigantic 
masses of clouds, assuming fantastic shapes and dark 
forms of demons, come tearing their way to the zenith. 
In the east all is quiet, and the fleecy, cumulous clouds, 
towering up like peaks of snow, and illuminated by the 
waning sun, send straight pink shafts of light across the 
dull, blue surface of the Lake. In the distance, this 
blue is changed to the most delicate green. Watch it, 
and in a moment it will change to blue again, and then 
again to green ; and the shafts of pink light on its sur- 
face will come and go like the blushes upon a girl's 
cheek. Never mind the near approach of the storm. 
You cannot afford to lose the Lake yet. As the black 
clouds gather in the east, the blues and the greens dis- 
appear, and the Lake turns to black, reflecting the 
wrath of the clouds above. The darts of the lightning 
descend into it, and the crash of the thunder borne over 
its surface is almost deafening. The sound of the wa^^es 
dies away. Long, smooth, irregular patches appear, 
looking as if the air had died above them. A few heavy 
spats of rain strike here and there. A dense mist begins 
to settle down. Faster and faster the rain-drops fall, 
and now the mad gods are all abroad; and in the mists 
there, the lightnings are rending the bosom of the Lake. 
But, in the midst of all the din, if you only listen acute- 
ly, you will hear the steady patter of the rain in the 
water — a soothing, tranquilizing sound; and in some 
dense forest, if you were lying upon the needle-covered 
ground, you would hear exactly the same sound made 
by the wind in the tree-tops. And now, if you could 
sleep in some old-fashioned attic, without a care or a 
trouble in your breast, where you could hear the rain 



The Kaleidoscope. 139 

playing its merry fantasie on the shingles, you would 
sleep the most refreshing of all sleeps. 

And then there are days when the heavens are cloud- 
less, the temperature cool, and the breeze blowing 
briskly and steadily from the north, that the Lake is a 
very kaleidoscope of colors, and puts on a habit it has 
borrowed from fairy- land. Start with the extreme east- 
ern limit, and you may trace nearly all the primitive 
colors of the prism, with their variations at intervals — 
blue, light green, grass-green, and the green of the 
waters in which the icebergs float, light and dark 
bronze, silvery gray, pink and purple, and a dull, dead 
gray color, close by you. Let but the breeze be strong 
enough to comb the crest of the waves into foam, and a 
more beautiful sight it would be impossible to conceive. 
■These colors are not fixed. The smallest cloud which 
passes over the sky will agitate and intermingle them in 
a very chaos of beauty, but as the cloud disappears they 
will return to their original order. Sometimes a larger 
cloud will hurry across the sky, fleeing from its shadow, 
which skims over the lake, as you have seen the same 
shadows skim over a meadow, and this shadow will ab- 
sorb color after color and leave a new one in its place, so 
that the whole of them will often be reversed. \\\ such 
seasons, the lake is a perfect picture of life, with its 
phases of trouble, of mirth, of youthful vivacity, of am- 
bition, of hope, and of despair. Your life and my life 
are there, with all the dreams we have dreamed and the 
loves we have loved — with the bubbles which fancy has 
blown, and the castles we have builded in the air — with 
the ties which have been formed and been broken — with 
the fates which have brought you and me together, like 



140 Suicidal. 

ships upon the ocean, to meet for a minute and hold 
converse, and then sail again and apart into the oppo- 
site horizons ; and yet always teaching the lesson that, 
in the darkest moments, there is compensation in the 
great beauty and blessing of nature, and that the Great 
Mother, who always clothes every material wreck with 
loveliness, and makes it beautiful and sacred to the eye, 
can also bring balm to every wrecked life, if we only 
approach her with loving hearts and outstretched arms. 
There is another aspect of the Lake, which I hope you 
will never see. It is when the air is sultry and heavy 
with moisture; when a chill, penetrating wind has 
settled down upon it, as in the late falls; when you can 
see only a stone's throw from the shore ; when the water 
is of a dull, milky color, and its wash against the sand 
is sullen and despondent, and there is not a pleasant 
sound or sight. The Lake then is suicidal in its ten- 
dencies, and is deliberately inviting you or Atropos to 
sever the thread in your web of life. Keep away from 
the Lake at such times, for it is a very monster, and 
you can have no good thoughts in its presence. 

August 1, 1868. 




RIP VAN WINKLE. 




IN this world of amusement in which Ave dwell, 
palpably the finest piece of dramatic art is the 
"Rip Van Winkle" of Mr. Joseph Jefferson. 
We are accustomed to compare the personations of 
other actors. We establish degrees of merit in the ef- 
forts of Booth, Adams, Couldock, and Forrest, in trag- 
edy, and Warren, Hackett, Owens, and Brougham in 
comedy. But when we come to Mr. Jefferson's "Rip," 
comparisons cease. It stands by itself, as sharply de- 
fined, as superbly drawn, as the Venus di Medici in 
statuary, one of Raphael's cartoons in painting, or Jen- 
ny Lind's Bird Song in music; and, if we ransack the 
records of the stage, we find nothing to which we can 
compare it. 

For the reason that his personation belongs to an en- 
tirely new school. It is the commencement of that 
dramatic era which Shakspeare foreshadowed in his ad- 
vice to the players. It is the dissolution of that system 
against which Charles Lamb and Addison wrote so pow- 
erfully in "Elia" and the "Spectator." I verily be- 
lieve if Charles Lamb had seen Jefferson's "Rip Van 
Winkle," although he was denouncing such great artists 
as Garrick and Mrs. Siddons, he would never have 
written that essay on the plays of Shakspeare ; and that. 



142 yeffer soil's Freedom. 

if Addison had seen it, the "Spectator" would have 
been minus some of those sketchy papers on the play- 
houses. I believe that gentle soul, Charles Lamb, 
would have taken his sister to see "Rip," and that they 
would have talked to each other as no two ever talked 
before; that great-hearted Addison would have taken 
off his hat and made his best bow to him ; that watery 
Sterne would have shed a Niagara of tears over the 
simple narrative, and Steele would have gone and got 
drunk, out of sheer inability to do justice to the subject 
in any other way. 

Mr. Jefferson's personation is totally unlike anything 
on the modern stage. Matilda Heron's "Camille," in 
her younger days, approximated to it somewhat, but 
at present there is nothing that resembles it on the 
stage. Mr. Jefferson has quietly ignored all the rules, 
regulations and precedents of the stage. The stereo- 
typed stage-walk — a sort of comico-heroic strut, which 
has been pressed into service for all sorts of characters, 
from "Harlequin" to "Hamlet;" the stage gestures; 
the stage attitudes, which "Mrs. Toodles," curtain- 
lecturing her intoxicated spouse, and "Lucrezia Borgia," 
shielding "Genarro" from the "Duke," both assume; 
the rolling of the eyes in a fine frenzy; the mouthing of 
phrases in a set manner, to catch the praise of the 
groundlings ; the hackneyed entrances and exits ; the 
rant, and the making of points, are all foreign to Mr. 
Jefferson. With him, the stage is merely an accident 
and no more essential to his personation than it was to 
Irving's conception. 

This school of acting which Mr. Jefferson has adopted 
is the very highest form of dramatic art. In it, he 



The Natural School. 143 

realizes the truth of the old adage, that it is the province 
of art to conceal art. He completely identifies himself 
with the character. That is the secret of his success — 
of his potent sway over the emotions of his auditors. It 
is this faculty which enables him so to blend humor with 
pathos that smiles follow tears in as quick succession as 
light follows shadow over afield on a summer afternoon. 
It is, perhaps, impossible for any person who has seen 
Booth to form any original conception of Hamlet. He 
invariably connects Hamlet with Booth, and the result 
is a theatrical Hamlet ; and the poor Ghost always walks 
into our memories with a theatrical stride, and smells of 
the calcium. So with Couldock's "Luke Fielding," 
Charlotte Cushman's "Meg Merrilies," Forrest's " Cori- 
olanus," or Burton's "Toodles." All these persona- 
tions were unusually fine, but the actors could not 
always merge themselves in the characters, because 
there was always the partition of theatrical necessities 
and precedents in the way. This is not the case with 
Mr. Jefferson. We do not connect " Rip Van Winkle" 
with Jefferson, but Jefferson with " Rip Van Winkle." 
The transformation is complete. He acts, talks, walks, 
laughs, rejoices and mourns just as " Rip Van Winkle " 
would have done — ^just as any human being would have 
done in "Rip Van Winkle's" place. In looking at this 
personation — and I own to having laughed and cried 
over it many times — I never think of Jefferson. I never 
think of his art. I never get "enthused" enough even 
to applaud, for I should never think of applauding 
"Rip," were he alive and walking to-day the streets of 
the village of Falling Waters. To me, there is no Jeffer- 
son on the stage, but the magnificent creation of Irving, 



144 Personal Pozver. 

moving before me. And all this is done without the 
show of art. Mr. Jefferson never talks above the ordi- 
nary conversational tone of voice, uses only a few ges- 
tures, and those of the simplest description, attempts no 
tricks of facial expression, and makes less fuss than the 
veriest supernumerary on the stage ; and yet I question 
whether any living artist has such an instantaneous 
command of the smiles and tears of an audience as he. 

In fact, I confess I should be afraid of that man or 
woman who was not affected by this personation. It 
has been my good or bad luck, as the case may be, for 
many years past to have written on every actor and 
actress who have come to this city, and to have wit- 
nessed thousands of dramatic performances. Constant 
dropping of water wears away the rock, and I confess 
until I saw Mr. Jefferson, I have looked upon stage 
murders and all sorts of villainies with a large degree of 
composure; have even smiled at the lachrymose Mrs. 
Haller, beloved of young women, and have studied with 
all my might to discover the fun in the stage situation at 
which the audience was laughing; and instances are 
on record where I have slept the sleep of the just all 
through a five-act tragedy, overrunning with murders, 
suicides, rapes, burglaries, divorces and crim. con. 
enough to have started a second Boston in business. 
And when I first went to see Mr. Jefferson, I went all 
calloused with dramatic labor. But if that man didn't 
have me laughing and crying alternately the whole 
evening, then I'm a sinner. 

The entire personation is so complete and individual- 
ized that it is very difficult to select any particular 
scene as better than others, for Mr. Jefferson is so 



The Depaj'hire, 145 

thorough an artist that he neglects not even the smallest 
detail. But there are two or three scenes which seem 
to me to stand out more prominently than the rest. 
One in particular is the episode where he is ordered to 
leave the house of his wife. Most actors would have 
torn a passion to tatters at this point, ranted and rushed 
round the stage, delivered mock heroics and dashed off 
in an ecstacy of blue fire with their arms flourished in 
the air, utterly forgetful of unities or proprieties. How 
different, Jefferson ! He is sitting upon a chair, partially 
turned from the audience, in a maudlin state. His wife 
orders him to leave her house and never return. Per- 
haps she has ordered him that way before, for he pays 
little heed to it. She repeats the order in a louder tone 
of voice, but still he pays no heed to it. He has 
stretched out his arm and raised his head as if to speak, 
when she again issues her order in an unmistakable man- 
ner. It strikes him like a thunder-bolt. Without 
changing the position of a limb, he sits as if that instant 
petrified. He is dumb with amazement, as the terrible 
truth gradually becomes clear in his muddled brains. 
The silence, the motionlessness, the fixed look of the 
face, are literally terrible. And when he rises slowly, 
quietly tells the wife he shall never return — for he has 
been driven away — stoops and kisses the little one, and 
so easily passes from the doorstep to the outer darkness, 
that it might have been the flitting of a shadow, you in- 
evitably draw a breath of relief that the scene is over, 
and indulge in a genuine feeling of the most hearty 
sympathy for this good-for-nothing, lazy, drunken, good- 
hearted vagabond. 

Equally, can there be anything more affecting than 
u 



146 Make Up. 

the scene when, after his sleep, he returns to his native 
village to find that no one remembers him? Or anything 
more sadly eloquent than the simple phrase, "Are we, 
then, so soon forgotten when we are gone?" pro- 
nounced so simply and quietly, and with such a gentle 
vein of sadness running through it ? This appeal, which 
any other actor would have thrust into the face of his 
audience as the place for "a point," Mr. Jefferson 
delivers so simply that you hardly at first catch the full 
force of its meaning, or become aware how much of 
life is summed up in the few simple words. It is a page 
out of real life, only another proof of the folly of sup- 
posing that you or I are at all essential to the rest of the 
world. 

Mr. Jefferson's make up is very remarkable. He must 
have studied the character with remarkable earnestness 
and closeness to draw it so perfectly. Before the sleep-, 
his face is a thorough picture of the good-for-nothing 
vagabond who exists in every village and is remarkable 
for nothing but his big heart, which draws to him all 
the children and dogs of the neighborhood — a sure 
proof of the humanity of the dog. In general I think 
that big dogs and small children are the most perfect 
instances of thorough humanity in the world. A man 
who has a big heart will always be recognized by a dog 
quicker than by the two-legged humans. Equally, dogs 
and small children always recognize each other. After 
the sleep, the picture of the old man is just as perfect. 
In every detail of age — the pains in the joints, the 
shambling gait, the wrinkled face and the childish ex- 
pression — he is the counterpart of old age. In neither 
phase of the character does he ever forget himself. He 



Snyder. 147 

is always " Rip Van Winkle." His forgetfulness of the 
audience amounts almost to impudence, and he is equally 
.forgetful of the actors. Off the stage, Jefferson is the 
most genial of men ; like Yorick, full of jest and hu- 
mor. On the stage, he never forgets that he is playing 
a character. He is " Rip Van Winkle" in front of the 
audience, behind the scenes, in the dressing room, and 
in the entr^ actes even. He never lets himself down for 
an instant from the necessities of the role until the cur- 
tain falls on the last act. He believes that an actor can 
never become too familiar with a part, never study it 
too much, and the result is that he plays just as consci- 
entiously now, as he did when he commenced, and is 
constantly making the personation better. 

Another singular feature of Mr. Jefferson's acting, is, 
that he not only makes "Rip Van Winkle " an actual liv- 
ing personage, but the dog " Snyder" also. Although 
" Snyder" never puts in an appearance upon the stage, 
he is as important a dramatis persona as any on the stage. 
I think I have a perfect conception of that dog "Snyder " 
— a long, lank, shaggy, ill favored, yellow cur, loving 
"Rip" with all his heart, hating " Mrs. Rip," a sworn 
friend of all the children in the village, one ear bitten off 
in an unpleasantness with "Nick Vedder's" mean bull 
dog, but with a big heart after all in his carcass, and a 
dog who would always take the part of a small dog in a 
quarrel with a bigger one. Jefferson succeeds in mak- 
ing " Snyder' ' an actual canine, although he is never visi- 
ble to the eye; and when "Snyder" goes rattling down 
the hill, scared out of his senses by Hendrick Hudson's 
phantom crew, I acknowledge to a feeling of sadness 
for the poor beast who is " Rip's " only friend. 



148 Poses. 

Although Mr. Jefferson never makes a point of theat- 
rical attitudes for mere effect, some of his poses are 
remarkably beautiful and artistic, especially that one as 
he stands shading his eyes with his hands, looking with 
amazement at the village of Falling Waters, after wak- 
ing up from his sleep ; also the careless way in which he 
sits upon the table in the first act, and the peculiar atti- 
tude in the chair when he is ordered from the house, 
to which I have already alluded They are just such 
attitudes as a painter would choose to paint, or a sculp- 
tor to chisel. They are thoroughly artistic, and much 
of this is undoubtedly due to the fact that Mr. Jefferson 
has very excellent talent in, and knowledge of, the 
sculptor's art. Had he followed it as a profession he 
would undoubtedly have achieved an eminence quite as 
elevated as that which he enjoys in the dramatic world. 

If I have devoted considerable of this letter's space 
to Mr. Jefferson, it is because his "Rip Van Winkle" is a 
production of art worthy more than passing notice, in 
the presence of which, the gauze and tinsel of the spec- 
tacular drama seem very tawdry, and mock heroics of 
the sensational and romantic schools of action very false. 
He stands the only embodiment of the natural school 
of action — the only true school. Who will be the next 
to follow him, and assist to reform and restore the stage 
to its proper place as a great educator of the people and 
exponent of art? 

September 5, 1868. 




AN AUTUMN REVERIE. 




T seems only a little handful of days ago that 
I was writing you of the note of the little blue 
trumpeter, announcing from the bare boughs 
the advent of Spring, and now the Autumn is here. 
And holding the days in our hands like grains of sand, 
there was now and then a golden one which you and I 
would have kept ; but, alas ! they, too, slipped through 
our powerless fingers, and the gold in the sand was but 
a dream within a dream. 

I told Mignon the Fall was here, for our trees have 
commenced to lose their yellowing leaves, and show 
here and there in their boughs, hectic flushes, and har- 
bingers of speedy dissolution. 

But Mignon said that the flowers were still blossom- 
ing brightly in the garden, and that there was some 
happiness yet. 

But I replied : " It is only for a few days my dear. 
The great trees are nearer the heart of nature and learn 
her secrets first. But the flowers will soon feel the dy- 
ing breath of the year, and, smitten with the cruel arrows 
of the frost, will bow their heads in recognition of the 
great mystery, and the dahlias, and the asters, and the 
marigolds will strew the earth with the souvenirs of the 
summer sunshine. Some of the shrubs, to be sure, will 
decorate themselves with berries in a childish way, and 

the pines and ever-greens, clad in sombre green, will 
n* 



150 An Autumn Reverie, 

stand moodily thinking of their gay friends who have 
left them — bearing the winter's white burden on their 
bent branches as the penalty of life in death, con- 
demned to live forever, like Ahasuerus, with the recol- 
lection of numberless summers and companions — strong, 
firm and inflexible, to bear the storms of winter, but 
without a leaf which may stir next spring in glad recog- 
nition of the breezes and the birds coming back again. 

" The birds, too, have learned the mystery, and have 
flown, all save the brown sparrow, and other sober, 
songless little fellows, who know that they have no bus- 
iness here when the flowers are in bloom, and little 
winged bunches of blue and crimson and gold, are fill- 
ing all the air with their trills and roulades. You may 
listen very earnestly now, and you will only hear in the 
day a chirp from the cricket, that little black under- 
taker of the insects, who tries to be very cheerful, but 
only succeeds in being sad." 

And I further said to Mignon : "These latter days 
of the year are akin to music, which is only music when 
there runs through it a vein of melancholy — a melan- 
choly like Tennyson's ' tender grace of a day that's 
dead ' — not sorrow nor grief, but that indefinable sad- 
ness which is to sorrow what the twilight is to the 
blackness of darkness. But we will make these days 
the happiest, for believe me, the chattering bobolink 
is not as happy as the sparrow, nor the shrill, noisy, 
cicada as happy as the chirping cricket ; and the 
truest happiness will be found in those lives which are 
shadowed with regrets, or veined with melancholy mem- 
ories to which hope's tendrils may cling." 

September 19, 1868. 




THE BEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD. 




THINK old women — I don't quite like the 
word "lady," because it don't mean anything 
now-a-days — are the most beautiful and lovable 
things in the world. They are so near heaven that they 
catch the glow and the brightness which radiate from 
the pearly gates and illuminate their faces. When the 
hair begins to silver, and the embers in the fire grow 
gray and cold, and the sun has got so far around in life's' 
horizon that the present makes no shadow, while the 
past stretches down the hillside to a little mound of 
earth, where we will rest for a season — a little mound 
not big enough to hold our corner lots, and marble 
fronts, and safes, which we shall have to leave on the 
other side of the hill, but big enough, I trust, to hold 
our memories, and fancies, our air castles and secrets ; 
and when the journey is nearly done, and the night is 
setting in, and the darkness begins to gather around us 
without any stars, and the birds sing low in the trees, 
and the flowers wither and die, and the music we hear 
comes from afar, strangely sweet, like sounds coming 
over the water, and like little children we live in our- 
selves, and the world gradually recedes from us — then I 
should like to be an old woman, full of blessed memo- 
ries and peaceful anticipations. 



152 The Best Woman, 

I think I know the best woman in the world, and 1 
think every other man knows her. I think the one I 
know has the kindest heart, and the dearest face, and 
the most caressing hand, and the most undying devo- 
tion among all women. Her eyes were once to me the 
boundaries of the world, and were the first things I ever 
looked into, and pray Heaven they may also be the last 
I shall look into And I think the best woman every 
other man knows has all these qualities in the same de- 
gree. And I think there is not one of us who has 
strayed so far from that woman — the best of all women 
— not one of us so calloused with the strife and toil of 
life, not one of us in the midst of difficulty and danger, 
who does not feel the invisible arms around him to 
shield him, and who does not long to go back to the 
arms and the love of that woman, and to rest, as we 
rested before our feet got into the flinty roads, upon the 
breast of our mother. 

October 3, 1868. 





THE SCHOOL HOUSE. 




N the round of my daily walks, it is my pleas- 
ure to pass a school-house, and I try to arrange 
my walks that I may happen to be there when 
school is opening and closing. The little men and wo- 
men who compose the miniature world in the school- , 
yard, and make sunlight for me, undoubtedly have no 
idea of the great pleasure they afford me, or how rap- 
idly my thoughts, under the magic influence of their 
bright eyes, lithe forms, and merry games, go back 
into the past, the morning-red of life, when the beau- 
tiful glamor of morning brightened every object it 
touched ; when the flowers bloomed perennially ; when 
the birds sang the sweetest of melodies ; and when 
the brooks went laughing and dancing over the peb- 
bles, full soon to broaden into sad, serene rivers, too 
soon to be hurled and beaten against the grey crags in 
eternal unrest ; and forward, into the future, a hazy, 
twilight land, full of indefinable shapes and perplexing 
uncertainties. And yet, as our shadows lengthen in the 
journey towards it, there is always one certainty : that 
we shall find there, those who have gone before. Some 
who traveled the whole weary journey, and arrived 



154 ^'^^ Child7'C7i. 

footsore and travel-stained, and some who never became 
old, and were spared the toilsome journey, because the 
angels loved them better than we and better than us. 

And I think, as I watch those children at play, how 
many unseen agencies are at work around them — of av- 
arice which will corrode and blacken this young life, 
and of charity which will make that young life beauti- 
ful ; of ambition, which some day with its trumpet blasts 
will wake this thoughtful one into action, and make the 
world wonder at him ; of love, which will make this 
one's pathway smooth, thinking of what is; which will 
interlace cypress in the myrtle, thinking of what might 
have been ; which will darken all God's Heaven for this 
one, thinking of what never should have been ; of fame 
which will send the name of this one sounding round 
the world ; of skill which will enable this one to see 
and know the very heart of nature \ of misery which 
will follow this one like a Mephistophiles; and of de- 
spair, which never stops short of the grave. 

And all this time, as I watch these children, chasing 
each other at play, as the yellow skeletons of the leaves 
chase each other in the wind in these memorial morn- 
ings, the fates sit spinning in the air above them, and 
weaving the tangled web of their destinies, some of them 
all white, some with here and there a black thread, 
while Atropos sits by with her fatal shears, which will 
sever this' thread too soon and that too late. 

It is only a few days, and this chase in the school- 
yard will be transferred into life, where no walls will 
hem them in, and away they will go to the four winds 
of Heaven^ and another set will take their places as they 
took ours. Ours ! Do you remember anything about 



A Reminiscence. 155 

those days in the midst of your invoices and bills of 
lading, your Berlin wools and Grecian Bends, and some- 
body coming home to tea and nothing in the house to 
eat ? Do you remember the little red school-house on 
the hill, with poplar trees in front of it, that you used 
to think almost touched the sky ? Do you remember 
the school mistress, with her pale face and sweet smile, 
and her little blue ribbon, now sleeping under the flow- 
ers, for school 's out forever, and she has a long vaca- 
tion ? Do you remember the little girl in white apron 
and blue gown, with blue eyes and golden curls, whose 
satchel you carried up the hill, and whose name you cut 
into the bark of the apple-trees, vowing an eternal con- 
stancy — an eternity which lasted until the apple-trees 
lost the last of their pink-and-white blossoms? Do you 
remember the swallows which twittered round the eaves 
of the school house all the spring and summer, and sud- 
denly one bright morning all left together, scared by a 
little brown bird, who came from the far north, and 
told them a story of something coming, which made 
them all shiver? And when that something came, do 
you remember the old box stove piled up with logs, and the 
snow-houses, and the nuts and cider, and the forfeits at 
the parties, especially that one where you carried the pil- 
low to the girl with black hair, instead of little Gold 
Curls, not being on speaking terms with her, and the 
school mistress, with cheeks paler, and eyes brighter 
than ever, and flushes in the face which came and went 
like lightnings in the western sky in summer eves, for 
the little brown bird did not warn her that she ought to 
go with the swallows ? You remember that when the swal- 
lows came back one sunny morning in the next May, 



iS6 



The Outlook. 



they did not find the school-mistress, for she went away 
with the brown bird. 

If you don't remember any of these things, I pity 
you, for the friction of life must have worn you quite 
smooth, and the outlook must be very dreary. 

October 11, 1868. 




A NEW LIFE. 




N these latter days of the year, so full of melan- 
choly, it occurs to me that we do not alto- 
gether die when we shuffle off this mortal coil, 
Is not physical death only a change to vegetable birth? 
We are born, we mature, flourish, and decay, and are 
laid away in the mould, only to reappear in the flower, 
the shrub, and the tree. That little child whom you 
buried when the leaves were falling, as you weep over 
its grave, in the bright springtime, when the leaves are 
repeating the miracle of the new creation, may look at 
you out of the golden petals of the dandelion and the 
butter-cup. There may be remembrance for you in the 
leaves of the shrub at the headstone, as they are ruffled 
by the breeze. There may be the souvenir of a famil- 
iar smile in the tremor of a daisy. 

The generations of men come and go, but their life 
is not all gone. Life does not cease to exist. It is 
eternal in its revolutions, its changes, and its new forms. 
Down under the sod this active principle of life is still 
at work. Mysterious chemical processes are operating 
in that silent darkness. The old life shoots up in the 
grasses. All the lives, and loves, and passions of long 
ago blossom in the flowers. The life you once knew is 



158 Lives in Trees. 

giving strength to the sturdy trunks of trees. It flows 
through the veins of the branches with the sap, and 
gives color to the leaves. In mythology, the Fauns and 
Dryads, Naiads and Hamadryads, typified this idea to a 
certain extent, and were the most beautiful creatures of 
that beautiful mythology — so beautiful, indeed, that I am 
heretic enough to acknowledge I would like to have 
known all those dear divine creatures, so full of good, 
old-fashioned mortal failings; to have sipped nectar 
from Hebe's cup, and lunched on ambrosia with the 
Thunder Bearer himself; to have gone to the opera 
with Apollo, flirted with the naughty Venus, philoso- 
phized with Minerva, taken tea with Juno, and had one 
roaring old supper with Bacchus. 

Thus there are whole races of men in the boundless 
forests, and friends of yours and mine in the flowers. 
It seems to me a very pleasant thought to believe that' 
those whom we have loved, and whose lives were so 
beautiful and graceful, are still growing in the beauty of 
the flowers, and the grace of the vines ; that those 
whose lives were bad and ungracious, yet exist in the 
nightshade and hemlock ; that those whose lives never 
blossomed in the shadow of great misfortunes, still 
live for us in those flowerless plants whose leaves are 
full of perfume ; that Nero is in the Upas, and Marat 
is in the dogwood. 

It is a pleasant fancy to me to think that some friend 
whom I love will not altogether die, but will live in a 
rose ; that I shall see the red of her cheeks in its petals, 
and that her grace will continue in its form ; that the 
fragrance of her memory will come to me in the fra- 
grance of its perfume, and that the tears which have 



Lives in Trees. 159 

stood in her eyes will be forever sacred in the dew drops 
on its leaves. 

There are strong, upright, and sturdy lives, which 
live again in the firs and pines, which are proof against 
all storms, and are green when all others are bare and 
sere ; there are far-reaching, all-embracing lives, which 
live again in the umbrageous oaks ; there are lives, which 
were warped in childhood, which live again in the 
crooked, gnarled trunks ; there are lives full of the gall 
of bitterness, which never sweeten in the crab and 
wormwood ;. there are graceful lives, which curve and 
undulate in the vines ; there are black lives which grow 
blacker in the poisonous plants, and the birds avoid 
the vegetable life as the children avoided the human, 
for birds and children are very much alike ; and I think 
sometimes that the souls of the musicians are still sen- 
tient in the murmuring wayes of the sea, and in the dia- 
pason of the wind-swept pines. 

November 14, 1868. 




OLD BLOBBS—HIS SPEECH. 




PITZ-HERBERT happened in this morning, and 
was lounging against the mantel, trying to look 
interesting. Old Blobbs was very much dis- 
gusted with the fellow, and begged to be allowed to 
have his say. So I yielded the floor to him. 

And Old Blobbs' screed ran somewhat as follows: "I 
think it is every woman's duty to look as pretty as she 
can, and, so long as she doesn't carry fashion to an ex- 
treme and commit the mistake of making herself ridicu- 
lous, she is excusable. I don't see any particular neces- 
sity in a young man's looking pretty. In fact, it has 
been my experience that when a young man does try to 
look pretty, he generally succeeds in making an ass of 
himself. It should be the duty of every man to do 
something before he dies of which he may be proud, 
and which may be of some benefit to the world or to 
the individual, so that when he gets up to the gates, and 
St. Peter questions his right to come in, he may have 
something to show for himself. I think a young m>an 
who is merely a walking advertisement for his tailor and 
barber, and who has degenerated into a fashionable 
dawdler, is in a poor way to accomplish anything for 
himself, let alone the world. And I furthermore think 



Fashionable Young Men. i6i 

that if I were St. Peter, and such a specimen came 
before me, I would lift my blessed angelic foot and send 
him flying into Chaos, without asking to see his creden- 
tials at all. A small, black-backed beetle, pushing his 
lump of dirt before him, is praising God more with 
those busy legs of his, fulfilling the duty which God 
gave him to do, and conferring more benefit upon man- 
kind in general, than an army of fashionable dawdling 
young men, the energy of whose enormous natures is 
mainly confined to murdering King's English, and en- 
dangering the integrity of looking-glasses. And when 
this fashionable young man lets his fashion run him 
into fashionable expenditure, there is n't a fashionable 
young woman in the city who can keep up with him. 
If he cannot have his Grecian Bend, he can have his 
benders, which, if not so Grecian, are vastly more ex- 
pensive. Dress, dinners, fast horses, betting, gambling, 
and the elegant vices which follow in their train, are 
ten thousand fold worse than all the pleasant little silli- 
nesses of which Araminta may be guilty. The ex- 
tremely fashionable young woman is pitiable, but she is 
only trying to make herself look handsome, and that is 
the object of her life ; but the extremely fashionable 
young man is disgusting, because he has no right to look 
pretty, and is simply squandering away opportunities he 
has no right to waste. ' ' 

Old Blobbs, as is his wont, grew excited as he talked, 
and, bringing his fist down upon the table with a vim 
which made the glasses fairly dance in their fright, and 
sent the condiments of the castor and the contents of 
the sugar bowl into promiscuous ruin, added: "Yes 
sir ! a man with nothing to do but to entertain himself 

12 



162 A Comparison. 

and exhibit himself to society, is the most contemptible 
object on God's footstool, and the sooner he gets off 
from it, and makes room for somebody else, the better. ' ' 
And here he grew slightly personal, and very red as to 
the face. "Yes sir! You, Mr. Fitz-Herbert, holding 
up the mantel-piece ! You think you are of some im- 
portance in the world, and yet I will wager that your 
direst responsibility to-day will be the parting of your 
back hair. I will wager that you never had an opinion 
in your life of more consequence than the relative 
merits of Macassar and Ursine! I will wager that you 
are not capable of feeling any distress keener than the 
anxiety of a doubt relative to the exact condition of 
your neck-tie. I will wager that Timothy Maloney, 
scraping dirt on the avenue to-day, although he may 
get drunk to-night and beat his wife, like the brute that 
he is, is of more service to the world than you are. 
That is my opinion of you, Mr. Fitz-what's-your-name, 
and if an opinion on any conceivable subject can be of 
any service to you, you are heartily welcome to it, sir. 
I repeat it, welcome to it, sir." 

I think Fitz-Herbert got an idea through his head 
that Old Blobbs was talking about him, for he actually 
took his tooth-pick out of his mouth and himself out of 
the room. 

December 5, 1868. 





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DEATH OF THE MAIDEN AUNT. 




LITTLE black-bordered billet reached us yes- 
terday, and a cloud has settled down upon all 
of us, for it brought the news of the death of 
the Maiden Aunt. 

She died in the night, by the side of the sea, which 
she always loved, and the last sounds she heard were its 
waves moaning on the beach, as her own life ebbed 
away on the strand of death; and, after that, such 
music as Raphael's St. Cecilia would sing, or the angels 
who hover around his Madonnas. 

She died by the side of the church-yard, in which for 
thirty years the daisies have bloomed over him, to whom 
she promised always to be loyal, and for whom she always 
wore the forget-me-not in the silken floss of her hair, 
in eternal remembrance. The forget-me-not is now 
quite withered, for memory has blossomed into realiza- 
tion, and hope is lost in possession, and the snow now 
covers them side by side here, and, for all that, they 
are side by side There. 

Her life was so hidden from the world, that i^^f knew 
her except the children and the house-dog, and some 
birds which were pets, and they mourn her loss. The 
children miss her, and it is something to be missed by 



164 How She Died. 

the children, for it shows that however the body may 
have been tossed about and weather-beaten in the tem- 
pest of life, the soul has preserved itself in the repose 
of childhood. The dog misses her, and goes about the 
house moaning, and stirs uneasily in his sleep as if 
dreaming of her, just as Florence Dombey's dog did, 
in her and his first sorrow. And it is something to be 
missed by a dog, for it argues a great deal of humanity. 
The birds miss her, and have ceased their songs ; and 
it is something to be missed by the birds, for no ungra- 
cious souls care for them or their songs. 

The heavens were mantled with grey, and the air was 
full of snow, and the black harbor waves moaned on 
the bar like a knell, when they buried her by the side 
of him who took away all her sunshine when he died, 
and left her life in the shadow. She sent some little 
remembrances to us — a curl of her hair to Aurelia ; a 
bit of blue ribbon, full of memories, to Celeste 3 a tur- 
quoise ring, which he had worn, to Blanche ; and the 
faded forget-me-not to Mignon. For the Maiden Aunt 
was rich only in memories. 

She did not die like a saint, for she was not a saint ; 
neither like a sinner, for she was not a sinner ; but like 
a true woman, full of courage and dignity, contented to 
cross the River, because she knew she would find him 
waiting for her on the other side, and wherever he went 
she would go. 

The Maiden Aunt always regarded human nature as 
something very sacred and sublime, and she regulated 
herself by that regard. I remember she used to tell me 
that she believed there was no nature so bad, but that 
it had a chord which would vibrate to goodness, provi- 



Her Belief. 165 

ded the finger was skilled to find and touch that chord; 
and that there was no soul so barren, but that some- 
where in it a flower was blooming. She did not believe 
that the divine spark which God implanted in each na- 
ture could ever be utterly quenched, however its light 
might be concealed in life's confusion and chaos. She 
had faith in His omnipotence. 

She had her faults and her frailties, which proved her 
humanity. She Avas intensely human. The dead were 
to her as the living, and he who had gone before her, 
I think was always with her. He was only absent on a 
journey, and would send for her when the time came, 
and she waited in patience. Her knowledge, like the 
knowledge of the most of us, was bounded by this life; 
and she used to say that, when her thoughts reached 
that boundary where knowledge ceased, her thoughts 
ceased also. Consequently, she gave her work to this 
life, and her love to him, whom she kept in this life, 
although absent ; and, notwithstanding all her faults and 
her frailties, I think, in the presence of the great sor- 
row which had eclipsed her inward being, the angels at 
the Celestial Gate did not question her — for the faults 
and the frailties were of the body, and under the snow 
with his, and never soiled the spirit, which had been 
sanctified and purified by the grief which she had car- 
ried as a burden at her heart. I think the angels recog- 
nized her at once, as they recognized the Beatrices who 
died — the one in glory, the other in agony — or that 
Irmgard, who found repose on the Heights. 

Our lives are twofold. There is the active, every-day 
life in ourselves, and the life which we live in sleep, and 
is made up of the tangled web of dreams. One of her 



1 66 Her Double Life. 

lives was in herself, hidden to the outward gaze, and 
yet manifesting its presence in a thousand gracelul ways. 
The other, which no one ever saw or knew but herself, 
went even beyond the realm of dreams, and in the 
place left vacant in her heart, by the absence of that 
life, there was eternal snow. 

What was beautiful a thousand years ago, is beautiful 
now, and if there were saints a thousand years ago, 
there must be saints now, although their record may be 
unchronicled, save in some human heart. I think the 
Maiden Aunt was as worthy of canonization as Ursula or 
Agatha, and that in this common, homely human life, 
there are many worthy of it, whose saintliness will not 
be known until that day when we are all brought upon 
a common level. The homeliest humanity is full of 
contests as fierce as those Tamerlane waged ; full of 
deeds as glorious as those achieved by the gods and 
demigods we set up for worship. They are never 
known to the world, for they have no historians or sing- 
ers to chronicle them, but when they come to be known 
as they will be one day, we shall be surprised to find 
that they were the real victors. 

December 12, 1868. 




THE NEW YEAR. 




SUPPOSE this old world will revolve about 
its axis in 1869, just as it did in 1868, and that 
Ave shall revolve with it just the same. I sup- 
pose we shall go on loving, hating, praying, cursing, 
marrying, dying, and doing foolish things in the new, as 
we did in the old ; that Old Midas and Gunnybags will 
chase the Almighty Dollar just as hard, and swindle 
just as much ; that Mrs. Blobbs will continue to lecture 
Old Blobbs on the proprieties, and that Old Blobbs 
will continue to grow worse and worse ; that Aurelia will 
have another baby in the new year just as she did in the 
old, and will think there never was such a baby born 
before ; that Celeste will continue to do foolish things, 
and be the most delightfully wicked little creature in 
the world, for she is just wicked enough to be com- 
pletely good ; that Fitz-Herbert will make an ass of 
himself next year as he did this ; that Mignon will be 
just as sweet and lovely, and keep all the rest of us in 
sunshine, and that Blanche will still search for the lost 
melody in her life. 

In general, I suppose, men and women will do in the 
new year just as they did in the last, and will continue 
to air their vices in the courts as if they were of any 



1 68 Conventionality. 

interest to other people who have vices of their own, 
which are a great deal more interesting, and boasting 
their virtues, when everybody knows that under the cu- 
ticle they are just as shabby as the rest of the world. 
This is the one grand mistake which people make, viz : 
To suppose their virtues or their vices are of any earth- 
ly interest to other people. 

As a general rule, you are only essential to yourself, 
and the man who takes off your boots, and puts on 
your coat, or the young woman who does up your coiff- 
ure, and looks after your toilet, and knows you best, 
will tell you this. Some people succeed in making he- 
roes of themselves, and are worshipped by some other 
people, but they are never heroes to those who know 
them best. Strip your hero of his decorations, bid him 
come down from his pedestal, undress him, and stand 
him up by the side of Terence Maloney, and you can't 
tell one from the other. 

You see the whole thing is conventional. 

So I suppose the sun will rise and set, and the world 
go on just the same, until suddenly it stops going, for 
you and for me, and we shall go out of it like gentle- 
men, I trust. 

We shall make the usual number of resolutions, I sup- 
pose, on New Year's Day, and break them before the 
next with our usual success. We shall firmly persuade 
ourselves next Friday morning that we are hereafter to 
be models of goodness, and pinks of propriety. We 
shall appropriate to ourselves the most of virtue and de- 
cency in the world, and set examples for the rest of 
mankind. We shall all be shining instances of temper- 
ance and godliness. We shall confine ourselves to a 



Resolutions. 169 

proper use of King's English. We shall attend upon 
Parson Primrose's ministrations twice each Sunday. 
We shall no longer ruin the characters of others with 
our idle, foolish gossip. We shall take off our masks 
and wear our souls upon our sleeves. And before the 
year is over, there isn't one of us who will do anything 
of the kind. Our cemeteries, next New Year's Day, 
will be just as full of head-stones set up to mark where 
our broken resolutions lie, as they have ever been. 

And a hundred years hence, it is extremely doubtful 
whether any one will care for our resolutions, whether 
they were kept or broken, or for us, whether we have 
lived or died. But I suppose, for all that, it will be 
necessary for us, during the coming year, to conceive 
that we are of some importance, and that the curious 
looker-on in Jupiter, and the Man in the Moon, will 
wonder what we are all doing on our ant-hills, and why 
we are making such a fuss. 

And I suppose when you and I retire from the stage, 
and the curtain comes down on the little farce we have 
been playing, that the great audience will not go home, 
nor the manager close up the theatre, but that other 
actors will step into our buskins, and thus the play will 
be kept up, and men will laugh, and women will weep, 
and others will love and hate, and do brave deeds and 
naughty deeds, although the call-boy may never sum- 
mon us again behind the lights. 

Now, I might go on from this point and preach you 
a sermon, as my brethren in the pulpit will do, upon 
the brevity of time and the stern realities of life, but I 
am not going to do anything of the kind. Life is not 
measured by years, nor by flight of time. He lives 



170 



Life, 



most who loves most, and lives longest who appreciates 
what is best. Some men live longer in a year than 
others in a lifetime. 

December 26, 1868. 




PUBLIC PARTIES 




T breakfast, this morning, our first topic of con- 
versation was on the matter of parties. It has 
been, as you know, a great party week, and 
Old Blobbs, in a casual kind of way, desired to know 
my opinion of them. Celeste looked a little uneasy at 
this request, for there is nothing that so delights that 
Dear Child as a party crush, and nothing is sweeter to 
her than the fine disorder of her green silk, after young 
Gauche has emptied his sherry over it, or old Mrs. Dal- 
rymple, who is chaperoning her two nieces to the marital 
market, has spilled a plate of escalloped oysters upon it, 
and that overgrown boy of the Midases, who is out for 
the first time, has trodden them in and disturbed the 
integrity of the panier besides. She regards all these 
things as the veteran does his scars, and loves to talk of 
them in her "confidences" to her two-and-forty dear 
young friends, who have just bobbed in after dinner to 
say "How do you do?" and inquire if it was really 
true, that bit of scandal about Matilda So-and-So and 
young Codliver. The company immediately pushed 
their chairs back. Mignon called the Canary from his 
cage for its morning meal, and as it flew to its customary 
place upon her shoulder, and watched with its sharp 
little black eyes the bread which was being crumbled for 



172 Party Competition. 

it, I thought I would rather talk about those two birds 
than parties. Blanche sat with her fine eyes half closed, 
as dear old Rossini used to sit at his table, and listened 
in a dreamy sort of way. Aurelia had all she could do 
to keep the baby still by threatening it with her shapely 
fore-finger, while Old Blobbs took his fifth baked pota- 
to, a feat in gormandizing which incurred a glance from 
Mrs. Blobbs that would have withered any other person 
and caused a rustle of her black silk (for Mrs. B. will 
wear her black silk to breakfast), eloquent with promises 
of something between the curtains which would not be 
as soothing as a lullaby nor as delicious as a love-song. 

And I spoke somewhat after the following manner : 
Some time ago I did myself the pleasure to give you 
my opinion of fashionable public weddings. Upon 
that occasion, you will remember that my principal ob- 
jection to those weddings, was the fact that people mis- 
take vulgarity for elegance. The same fatal mistake 
applies to public parties, as they are usually given ; 
where genuine elegance becomes impossible, and there 
are no opportunities offered for the display of taste. 

You all well know that party giving, at present, is a 
mere competition. Mrs. So-and-So issues her cards for 
two hundred. Mrs. This-and-That immediately sends 
out three hundred, and Mrs. Whether-or-No, at her 
party, increases her list to five hundred, and so on. 
Now, I have no hesitation in pronouncing this simple 
vulgarity. You cannot make miscellaneous herding ele- 
gant. In the first place the social element is killed. 
To claim that you have five hundred friends is simply 
stupid. To claim that you have fifty is susceptible of 
doubt. If you have five, you are much better off. 



Party Vulgarity. 173 

Your five hundred people are, then, merely acquaint- 
ances. In the race to get ahead of some one else, you 
have invited scores of people you don't care a straw for, 
scores of others who don't care a straw for you, scores 
of boobies and simpletons, and when you have herded 
and packed them together, in a house not capable ot 
holding one-fourth that number comfortably, you have 
simply made a vulgar crush, where no one knows his 
neighbor, and where mutual acquaintance is impossible, 
because, however peripatetic you may be in principle, 
you are stationary in fact. To make such an affair ele- 
gant, is in the nature of things impossible. Mere show, 
noise, glitter, gilt, gingerbread, and gew-gaw, are not 
elegance. Taste cannot be exercised among, nor appre- 
ciated by a genteel mob. In forms of art, in matters of 
taste and true elegance, there must be the element -ot 
repose. It is indispensable to perfection. A gathering 
of people without any conditions of age, character, or 
quality, literally packed into a space so small, that loco- 
motion becomes impossible ; a table which your restau- 
rateur can't make a success, owing to this fact; an 
intellectual atmosphere, surcharged only with the small 
gossip and twaddle of the hour ; an utter absence of 
culture, which alone could impart the repose of true 
elegance ; a meretricious display of glitter, and no true 
gold ; a feasting which is only gormandizing — for in 
such a miscellaneous gathering you cannot keep out the 
gluttons ; an absence of all true courtesy, because it is 
impossible to exercise it in the crush; an occasion 
which does not offer a single inducement for attendance, 
in the way of art, music, literature, or the best forms of 
social intercourse — is all that you have accomplished. 



174 Party Vulgarity. 

Was it worth accomplishing ? You know it was not, 
my dear madame, as well as I. You know that when 
you wake up the next morning, you are utterly disgusted 
with the whole affair, and that there is not a single ele- 
ment of gratification in remembering it, except the 
empty honor of beating Mrs. So-and-So. You know 
that nine-tenths of those who were present did not 
enjoy a single minute of comfort, and look back upon 
your party as a bore, while the happy ones are those 
whose regrets lie upon your table. 

And all this, simply because it was vulgar — not vul- 
gar as meaning immoral or low, but as meaning silly 
and common. You have made your house too com- 
mon. No party can be a success, in the best sense of 
the word, in which there is not some discrimination 
used in inviting your guests. You should always arrange, 
if possible, to bring people together of similar tastes, 
and then have some central point to hold them to- 
gether. If you must invite five hundred people, you 
had better make five parties of one hundred each, care- 
fully discriminating, so that your guests may enjoy 
themselves, than to herd the whole five hundred into 
one, and thus make a mere rush, scramble, crush and 
guzzle of it, and transform your house into a menagerie. 
I am glad to know that this view is not confined to my- 
self, but that in good society, (not the "best" society, 
for that is almost always the worst), the home parties 
are included in small soirees of a distinctive character, 
in which there is ample room for the display of culti- 
vated and artistic elegance, admission to which is deem- 
ed an honor. 

But do not forget above all, that when a thing 



Public Parties. 175 

becomes miscellaneous, it becomes vulgar, and that 
judicious exclusiveness and cultured repose are abso- 
lutely essential to true elegance. The most delicate rose 
in the garden planted among hollyhocks, and sunflow- 
ers, and weeds, loses all its beauty and fragrance. 

Old Blobbs had finished his potato, and was far ad- 
vanced upon his sixth, when I concluded. He heartily 
agreed with me, although Celeste was pouting her 
pretty lips, and said that he desired to make a few 
remarks also, whereupon Mignon commenced teasing 
the Canary with a geranium leaf from our breakfast bou- 
quet, and Mrs. Blobbs suddenly excused herself, which 
did not, however, deter Blobbs from saying his say. 

January 10, 1869. 




AURELIA' S BABY. 




IT is necessary I should say something about 
Aurelia's Baby, for it is the only baby in the 
whole world. At least Aurelia thinks so — -just 
as any other mother thinks. 

I suppose there never was a baby born into this vale 
of tears, that its mother did not suppose to be the 
only baby in the world. I suppose those poor women 
who were the mothers of Nero, Richard, Elizabeth, 
Robespierre, Marat, and the latest murderer who has 
expiated his villainies on the gallows-tree, thought the 
same thing, equally with the mothers of all good and 
blessed people. I see no good reason why they should 
not, for the birth of the first baby revolutionizes the 
world. The mother passes into a new sphere of being, 
illumined by other suns and stars, in which other flow- 
ers blossom and other birds sing, and the only inhabi- 
tants of which are she and the baby. All her great love 
centres in the baby, and where all her love centres, of 
course, there is her world. The whole world of the 
baby is limited by the boundaries of its mother's eyes. 
You may have noticed a baby lying in its nurse's arms, 
looking up into the sky with wide-staring, vacant eyes 
and blank face. It has no more intelligence in its face 
than a small kitten or any other sucking possibility. In 
■"he arms of a nurse, all babies are alike — merely breath- 



Eve's Baby. 177 

ing bits of blank vacancy — apple-dumplings, with plums 
for eyes, and stuffed with colic. But, change the scene, 
and place the baby in the arms of its mother, and, 
somehow, by some strange necromancy that passes be- 
tween the two, some subtle link of affinity, that baby's 
face lights up with intelligence and its little white soul 
looks out of the eyes as it recognizes its world in the 
calm, holy eyes of the mother; for I think every moth- 
er's eyes, from Aurelia's to some wild Indian mother's, 
crooning strange weird lullabies under tropic palms, to 
her first born, are saintly when they gaze into the sweet 
face of the first baby. And I believe that the angels do 
not know such a love as exists between those two mor- 
tals. 

Which reminds me to say that I think Eve's baby, 
which she named Cain, had the advantage of Aure- 
lia's baby in some respects. The chronicles of that 
day do not show that the baby Cain was obliged to take 
soothing syrup, squills, or paregoric. There is no 
proof that the angels smiled at him or talked to him in 
his sleep, as they do to modern babies through the medi- 
um of colic. Cain could wander about at his own 
sweet will, without any danger of catching the whoop- 
ing cough, measles, chicken-pox or any other of the 
contagious infantile necessities which have been imposed 
upon all coming babies by his mother's exploits in steal- 
ing and eating apples. Adam did not have to walk the 
floor o' nights, have his whiskers pulled out by the roots, 
or buy rattles and india-rubber rings. There isn't a 
line on record to show that the infantile Cain suffered 
from pins sticking into his blessed little legs and arms. 
I do not suppose that the old ladies of the neighborhood 
13 



178 His Advantages. 

came in every day or so, and scared Eve's life out of 
her, by conjuring up all sorts of diseases, with all sorts 
of remedies and cheerful predictions that Cain would 
die young, although I think it would have been better 
for Cain if he had. Holy Writ does not show, again, 
that Cain was entrusted in his marsupial days, to the 
care of that curious compound of a gin bottle and a 
baby-tender, who has a profound contempt for the 
mother, knows more than all the rest of the world com- 
bined, and looks upon a physician as a foe to the human 
race. I do not suppose Cain was kissed within an inch 
of his life by prospective young mothers and youthful 
females, who have graduated from the doll stage of 
their existence, nor that he was rigged up in bib, pina- 
fore, and ribbon, until he was purple in the face, with 
the point of one very sharp pin inserted into the end 
of his back, and placed on exhibition in a state of 
squalls and general disgust consequent upon the afore- 
said point, which he could feel, if he could n't see. 
The youthful Cain was not made the victim of the ma- 
ternal meetings, and crammed with Watts' hymns, and 
chapters of the Bible before he was into his fig-leaf 
breeches — and right here, I suppose somebody will say 
he would have turned out better if he had been brought 
up in this manner, to which I might retort with the fact 
that Abel was not subjected to the cramming process 
either. Cain never bumped his precious little head by 
falling out of his crib. He could not fall out of the 
cradle of the beautiful white arms of the first mother, 
which encircled him with their zone of love, and which, 
I warrant you, yearned for him even when he wandered 
through the earth, with the brand upon his brow, and 



Eve. 179 

the stain upon his heart, and our common mother 
mourned in the depths of a triple agony. And it is to 
be recorded as one of the incidents of his early days, 
that Eve was a healthy woman, and he was not brought 
up on chalk and water, and did not ruin his small stom- 
ach with candy and sweetmeats, presented by injudi- 
cious, but kindly disposed people, whose generosity was 
only equalled by their stupidity. 

I am getting away from Aurelia's baby somewhat, but 
there are still some analogies between Aurelia and Eve 
untouched upon, and, as I am writing this screed I will be 
obliged to you if you do not interrupt me again, but 
leave me to say my say in my own manner. I candidly 
confess to you that I don't know where this baby busi- 
ness will take me, or when I shall get through talking 
about it, but just at present I prefer to let the subject 
take me along at wili. I had rather trust myself to ba- 
bies, than some grown people who insist upon interrup- 
tion. 

After this necessary parenthetical defence of my 
rights, I may say that although the youthful Cain turned 
out very badly, I do not suppose that Eve — as she sat 
under the pleasant trees of Eden, and watched the little 
Cain playing in the flowers, while all the birds, as yet 
unharmed by man, came and sang to her — ever thought 
her first-born would be a murderer, or ever saw any- 
thing in his face, as he lay upon her bosom, but love 
and joy. For the good God never made anything ugly 
or bad. All that comes from his hand is perfect and 
beautiful. No human being, do I sincerely believe, is 
born absolutely ugly. The ugly man has made him- 
self ugly. The ugly woman is at fault herself. 



1 8o hi Store. 

And as Aurelia sits looking into the eyes of her baby, 
I do not think she ever dreams of what may be in store 
for it in the coming days. Her whole world is in the 
present. But as I watch them, smoking my cigar, I 
cannot help seeing visions in the smoke, and I some- 
times shudder as I think that the sweet blue eyes may 
lose all their light of beauty, and purity, and innocence, 
and burn with the fierce flame of passion, or be dimmed 
with the mists of misery, or darkened with the night of 
anguish through which she may have to pass ; that the 
little soft pink-and-white feet may have to travel and 
bleed on the flinty roads to which they are all unused, 
and that, weary and travel-worn, soiled and dusty, they 
may find no resting place this side of Heaven, save in 
the long rest under the flowers ; that the tiny hands 
which now grasp at the world, as if they would clutch 
it all in the little fists, may full soon fold themselves., 
tired with the conflict, may grasp another only to be 
deceived, only to wither and waste away, only to be 
crossed above a cold, silent heart, with a flower in their 
marble fingers, may know cruel grasps of parting, and 
heart-ache, may do the deed which shall dishonor the 
sweet mother-hand which must too soon cease to guide, 
and must let go the hold which it would fain keep for- 
ever. 

And in all the great joy in her eyes, I see no traces of a 
shadow which may come into the house ; no fear that 
some day the sun will not shine for her, and the stars 
be darkened in the cruel heavens ; that the baby which 
but yesterday filled all the home with the light of her eyes 
and the silvery music of her voice, will be lying cold and 
still in the chamber overhead ; that the little waxen face 



The Maternal Change. 18 1 

moulded into a moment's unearthly beauty, by that 
cunning sculptor, Death, will cease to respond to her ; 
that the white and green of the cross and the crown, 
and the half opened rose-bud, no whiter than the 
fingers holding it, will be the only souvenirs of her whom 
the jealous angels carried away in the night watches, be- 
cause she was fairer than they. I think sometimes of 
these things as I sit watching them, but I know that 
she does not, and I pray Heaven to avert the cruel blow, 
and that the mother may be waiting for the child at the 
Gate Beautiful, and not the child waiting for the moth- 
er ; and that all the good angels may watch over them, 
and shield them both, however deep the waters through 
which they may pass. 

I think that Aurelia's face has suffered "a sea- 
change " since the little one was born ; that it has been 
transfigured into something more beautiful — a serenity, 
and holy calm, which is not altogether beauty, but a 
rapt and saintly expression, such as you may see in the 
Madonna della Sedia of Raphael. I think you will 
often see it in young mothers at certain times. All 
that was there before imprinted by the wear and friction 
of life, with its petty annoyances, vexations and passions, 
all the weariness and ennui, all the storms and conflicts, 
seem to have passed away, and in their stead has set- 
tled down a placid, gentle, saintly expression, just as 
after the noise and bustle, the smoke and dust, the jan- 
gle and jar of the day, come the brooding wings of the 
twilight, the holy hush of evening, and the silence of 
the stars. 

January 17, 1869. 



THE QUARREL. 




LD Blobbs, who always takes a fiendish delight 
in chaffing Fitz-Herbert, immediately proceed- 
ed to enlighten him, by declaring it was no- 
thing of the sort. "I suppose, my young friend, that 
Lambele had the same right to get married as Mrs. 
Blobbs had, and would give the same reason. I sup- 
pose, if you live long enough, sir, you will find some 
foolish young woman who will want to marry you, al- 
though I think you will be quite old by that time. 
Mrs. Blobbs and I have lived together a great many 
years. With all due deference to Mrs. Blobbs, we have 
had a good many clouds in our sky, and some storms. 
It is not for me to say who has caused these storms, nor 
to insinuate that it is not altogether necessary for us to 
have had clouds in our sky. Perhaps, if the sun shone all 
the time, we should not appreciate each other as we do. 
At the same time, Mrs. B. will join me in saying that it 
is a blessed thing to be married. Why, sir, look at J. 
Grau, who has been sitting under the willows of Baby- 
lon, playing the harp all his life, in single blessedness, 
and is going to marry a young New York lady, of 
charming beauty and great expectations. Now, you 
may ask why J. Grau, who has always been wedded to 



The Storm. i '^■^ 

art (when it paid), wants to marry? It will make a 
man of J. Grau, sir — make a man of him. It makes a 
man of any one, A man without a wife is a boat with- 
out oars. It will drift without purpose, and finally go 
to pieces. He is a jug without a handle — a bow with- 
out an arrow. It would make a man of you, sir, al- 
though it might take more than one woman to do it. 
Your prospects for an early attainment of that desidera- 
tum would be better under the wings of Brigham Young, 
albeit the ' heft ' of the labor would come upon your 
marital female fractional parts. Any further informa- 
tion you desire, you can obtain from Mrs. Blobbs, if 
you apply between the hours of two and three, when she 
is invariably at peace with me and all the rest of the 
world." Whereupon Fitz-Herbert smoothed his back 
hair and looked at himself in the mirror opposite, and 
Mrs. Blobbs' black silk began to rustle, when Mignon 
prevented an outbreak between Jupiter and Juno by de- 
claring it was a shame to have the pleasure of the 
breakfast-table marred with any differences. The Cana- 
ry stopped singing when Mignon spoke, ashamed of his 
music, and as the Dear Creature arose and kissed the 
frown out of Mrs B.'s face, and smoothed down Old 
Blobbs' iron-gray locks, she said: "We must have no 
naughty words, my dear Blobbs, in this golden sunlight 
and under these blue heavens. Let us thank the good 
God who sent us gifts of days like these in the new 
year, and who tempers the winter winds in blessings to 
the firesides of the poor, and not mar their perfect 
beauty with our little differences." And she took 
Blobbs' hard, horny hand, and Mrs. B,'s thin and 
withered hand in her own little white hands, and, 



184 The Truce 

placing them together, said: ''We will have no more 
quarrels, my dears, and, under clear and cloudy skies — 
in bright or stormy weather — when roses are blooming 
and roses are dying — when the birds build among the 
leaves, and when no birds fly under the gray heavens — • 
we will go hand in hand and heart to heart, for life is 
too short for us to quarrel in. The sun is low down in 
the west, and our shadows grow longer. We have but 
a little way to go down the hill, and one of us must 
leave the other before we get to the foot of it. We 
will, therefore, forget all about the rough journeys up 
the hill, and make the rest of our way lighter and 
brighter, in remembrance of that day, so long ago, 
when we placed our hands together thus, and promised 
so to do." And there were tears in Mrs. Blobbs' face, 
and Old Blobbs' face lighted up with an expression 
none of us had ever seen it wear before. As the old 
couple sat for some time, hand in hand, and neither of 
them spoke, we knew that the trumpets were singing 
truce, and that the battle was over. 

January 23, 1869. 




A WOMAN NOT OF THE PERIOD. 




UT thus formally embracing the Woman of the 
Period, I cannot altogether suppress memories, 
and among them will come memories not of the 
period ; a woman who believes that God Almighty did not 
intend to unsex her ; a woman who believes that as soon 
as her dependence upon man ceases, she loses all her 
loveliness ; a woman whose home is a perennial spring, 
from which flow the purest of pleasures ; a woman who 
sends out her boys and girls into the world, clothed with 
her own graces of humility, and beauty, and goodliness, 
whereby they may crown her old age with blessing ; a 
woman who is queen at her own fireside, and rules her 
own household with the sceptre of love ; a woman who 
governs because she serves ; a woman whose influence 
radiates far and wide from the home circle, as light and 
heat radiate from the sun ; a woman upon whose breast 
you first opened your eyes to the light of day, and a 
woman upon whose breast you would fain lie when you 
close your eyes forever to the light, and prepare to go 
through the darkness alone ; a woman to whom invisi- 
ble forces are ever drawing you, under all suns, in all 
times, and in all wanderings, be they never so far 3 a 



1 86 The Mother. 

woman, the perfume of whose prayers always follows 
you, in good or evil report ; a woman who always clings 
to you, even to the depths of degradation ; a woman 
whose great love is superior to all the accidents of time ; 
a woman whose still, small voice, warning finger, and 
pleading eyes, are ever present with you: when over- 
whelmed with sore temptations ; a woman whose price 
is above rubies, who worketh willingly with her hands, 
who giveth meat to her household, who stretcheth 
her hands to the poor, whose husband is known in 
the gates, when he, (not she), sitteth among the 
elders of the land ; who openeth her mouth with wis- 
dom, and in whose tongue is the law of kindness ; who 
looketh well to the ways of her household, and whose 
childreh and her husband also arise up and call her 
blessed ; a woman to whom you look up, and whom you 
worship, though no halo, except that of love, sheds its 
light upon her sweet face ; a woman whose life is too 
holy to be debased with politics, too industrious to be 
wasted on empty babble, too lofty and too noble to be 
dragged down to the level of man ; a woman, best of 
all women — your mother and my mother. 

February 13, 1869. 




A TRIP TO HEAVEN 




T was in a dream, and, I think, the Andante of 
the fifth symphony had something to do with 
it. In any event I left this Earth very sud- 
denly on a trip among the stars. After I had risen a 
short distance, I looked down upon the Earth, and was 
astonished to find what a small and insignificant place 
it was, after all. Quite a number of people whom I^ 
might mention, who make a great parade and show, and 
who strut up and down the green footstool, like Sir Or- 
acles, actually looked to me like ants, running about on 
an ant hill, and they didn't appear at my height to 
any better advantage than those who were more humble 
and retired. Several loud, blatant fellows, and several 
women gifted with Gab, strange to say, I couldn't hear 
at all. In fact, I couldn't discover that there was any- 
thing at all of much consequence in this world, to a 
man half a mile up in the air. When I arrived at the 
Moon, I stopped to rest, and had a talk with the Man 
in it, who laid down his bundle of sticks and was very 
affable. Much to my surprise, when I looked after the 
Earth I couldn't find it, and inquiry of the Man did 
not help me any, as he had never known such a place, 
except from hearsay. He pointed out several millions 



1 88 The Planets. 

of stars in an obscure and remote part of the heavens, 
which were dimly visible, and intimated that the Earth 
might be among them, but, as it was of so little conse- 
quence he never troubled himself about it. When I 
told him, however, how the lovers of Earth worshipped 
his planet, he seemed pleased, and expressed his gratifi- 
cation that there was so much moonshine in love. I 
gave him the latest intelligence of the doings of the 
Sorosis, in which he manifested considerable interest, 
there being, as he told me, no women in the Moon. I 
noticed that the place was exceedingly quiet. 

After guiding me upon my way to Heaven, he picked 
up his bundle of sticks and resumed his journey, and I 
set off on another flight. I passed Jupiter, who was 
still up to his scandalous tricks, which, of old, brought 
Antiope, Leda, Europa, and others, into the divorce 
courts; passed Mars, who was just putting on his hel- 
met and preparing to thresh a small planet in a distant 
galaxy ; passed Venus, to whom I touched my hat and 
hurried on, as she was just then engaged in a tete-a-tete 
with Adonis; passed the Pleiades, all of whom still wear 
mourning for their lost sister, who, they informed me, 
ran away several thousand years ago, with a pretty little 
comet with a tail like a peacock's; passed Ursa Major, 
who growled somewhat, but finally gave me a drink from 
his Dipper ; passed the North Star, the only steady and 
well-behaved star in the heavens. After leaving the 
Cynosure, my course led me into the Milky Way, a 
wretched place, which, to my astonishment, I found full 
of milkmen, who, on earth, have been accustomed to 
sell chalk and water. One of these unfortunate shades, 
who used to have an Elgin dairy on the Archer road, 



Other Sy stents. 189 

informed me, with tears in his ghostly eyes, that the 
Milky Way was reserved for the milkmen of Earth, who 
have proclivities for pumps, and that they are doomed 
to be chased through all eternity by stump-tailed cows. 
He begged me, when I returned to earth, to warn his 
relatives and all others in the business. I promised to 
do so, and, when I left the Milky Way, he was making 
the grand round, with a whole herd of stump-tails, who 
used to live on the North Branch, after him. 

After leaving the Milky Way, I reached the bound- 
ary of our system of planets, and dodging innumerable 
meteors and comets which were flying about in the most 
eccentric manner, and narrowly escaping destruction by 
the explosion of a planet, many times larger than the 
Earth, which burst into millions of atoms with a roar 
which seemed to shake the whole empyrean, and went 
floating off into space like a piece of burned tinder, 
passed into another system of stars and planets, all 
revolving round their central stm. The earthly system 
was soon lost to view. I passed from planet to planet, 
from galaxy to galaxy, floated in azure fields full of 
gorgeous nebulae, or rode on undulating billows of air, 
between comets of lustrous sheen, and moons and suns, 
whose orbits interlaced, in sheens of glowing, rosy light. 
Out of this system into still another, and the last faded 
from sight again, and so on till I reached a great calm 
sea of golden light in which there were no suns nor no 
moons. I had passed the confines of all worlds, and 
they had all disappeared. Above, below, and all 
around was only this serene, golden atmospjhere, unfleck- 
ed by a single spot, undotted by a single island. It 
was the vast, open sea of Immortality, which never be- 



190 At the Gate. 

gan, and shall never end. In that sea there was no 
limit to vision. In that sea all things became clear. 
Time dwindled to a speck, and Death was only an in- 
cident. Life was incomprehensible in this sea, but it 
seemed to me with my new vision that I had lived many 
lives before this one, and that I saw the shadows and 
indistinct forms of others yet to be lived. As I floated 
on, I suddenly rose out of the gold into a crystal at- 
mosphere, which was no longer the solitude of the 
sea, but was peopled with beautiful forms which flew 
slowly past me with wondering eyes, and one or two 
there were, who gazed at me with an old familiar look 
I somehow seemed to remember in that Earth, millions 
of miles below me, but no sound came from their lips, 
and thus I questioned them in vain. As I rose higher, 
this crystal atmosphere was crowded with lustrous forms, 
and suddenly, in a blaze of almost blinding brightness, 
I found myself at the great gate of pearl, with St. Peter 
keeping watch and ward, the keys in his hands, as the 
old masters loved to paint him. He very courteously 
denied me admission, as I was only in a dream, and 
had not yet passed to that sleep which knows no dreams ; 
but he allowed me to stand at the gate. 

And as I stood there, several disembodied individ- 
uals who had formerly lived on Earth, applied for 
admission. Upon each application, St. Peter inquired 
in a loud voice within, if there was any objection. The 
first who came was a cartman. The usual inquiry was 
made, and as the cartman was about to enter, his horse, 
whom he had beaten and killed with cruelty, and whose 
sufferings had reached the throne of the infinite God, 
confronted him, and gazed at him with those eyes 



The Laiv of Love. 191 

which had appealed to him for mercy in life, until he 
fled in dismay into the outer abyss. Another came, 
and a little bird, whom he had wantonly shot on Earth, 
to whom God had given life not without purpose, flew 
from a lotus plant to the gate, and confronted him. 
He, too, asked no questions and turned away. An- 
other came, and, as he was about to enter, a pallid form 
with a gory wound on his forehead, suddenly appeared 
before him, and the now revealed murderer fled, shriek- 
ing, away from the gate. The next who came was a 
purse-proud individual, who had on Earth ground down 
his female employees, and paid them only the scantiest 
pittance, and as he was about to enter, a woman in rags, 
with pinched, wan features, who had died of neglect 
and starvation, met him and prevented his entrance. 
I could not begin to enumerate all who came to that> 
gate and went away. One man's entrance was pre- 
vented by a butterfly, whom he, cruelly and in wan- 
ton sport, had torn to pieces to gratify his malicious idle- 
ness. Each one that had perpetrated a needless wrong, 
met that wrong at the gate, and it stood in his way. And 
I inquired of St. Peter if that was the universal law in 
Heaven, and he said to me : " The law of Heaven is 
love. The law of kindness is the law of love, and he 
loves the great God best who loves everything He has 
made — the beast of the field, the bird of the air, and 
the fish of the sea ; and Heaven loves him best who 
loves all His works on the Earth, from the tiniest 
insect to his brother Man." 

St. Peter ceased, for just then Beethoven and Mozart 
and Mendelssohn and Bach commenced to play a new 
quartette, which they had just composed together, and 



ic)2 A Reiiicvibrance. 

so sweet was that music that all the angels came flocking 
to hear it. Dante stood by listening, with Beatrice, for 
he no longer looked up to her in the shining heights, 
but beheld his "most gentle lady" face to face. Irma, 
who found repose on the Heights, and the other Bea- 
trice, now kindred spirits, were there. Petrarch and 
Laura, and Abelard and Heloise, freed from all earthly 
taints, reclined upon a flowery bank and listened, and 
many others, whom I have not time to enumerate, who 
did great deeds upon Earth, and suffered great sorrows, 
and yet were nameless heroes there, found their great 
reward in these delights. As the music ceased and I 
was about to turn away, there was a little form which 
flew towards me and looked at me with unutterable love 
in her eyes, and stretched out her little white hands to 
me, and I recognized the eyes as those I had seen on 
Earth and the hands as those which I had seen crossed' 
over a rose-bud no whiter than they, and the form as 
one we had laid away, when all the birds were singing 
and all the flowers were in bloom, in the populous Acre of 
God. And I would fain have gone to her, but as I sprang 
forward, she vanished slowly into the distance, still look- 
ing at me with the loving eyes, still stretching out the 
white hands, and, like a strain of beautiful music wafted 
over water in the night-watches, came the words to me, 
" Not yet." And the heavens vanished and I awoke 
upon the dim spot which men call Earth. 

February 20, 1869. 



DA V DREAMS. 




UR talk at the breakfast table yesterday morn- 
ing, was discursive to a degree which would 
have distracted Anna Dickinson. We had no 
hobbies to ride, and we rattled on about this, that, and 
the other, Mignon's Canary singing at the top of his 
little lungs, and Aurelia's baby adding to the general 
confusion by the most desperate protests, in an un- 
known tongue, against a pin, which was sticking into 
his blessed little back. We were all very happy, and 
not even Mrs. Blobbs complained of any invasion of 
her rights. Old Blobbs, his face beaming with delight, 
was undressing his third baked potato, and asked, in a 
careless, and slightly sarcastic way, ''Well, what have 
you been day-dreaming about lately ? ' ' 

And I replied : " You should not speak so lightly of 
day dreams, for you are a day-dreamer. ' ' 

Blobbs looked up in surprise, and Mrs. Blobbs stop- 
ed stirring her coffee to gravely shake her head. " Yes, 
my dear Blobbs," said I, "you are a dreamer. We 
are all dreamers. Life is all a dream, and we shall not 
cease dreaming until we fall into the dreamless sleep, 
when all that is now dark will become bright, and the 
Sphynx will no longer torment us with the enigma of 

14 



194 Sentiment. 

its stony lips and staring eyes. It is useless for you to 
deny that you have any sentiment in your nature. You 
may try to cover it up with discounts, invoices, bills of 
lading and mortgages. You may mingle with men upon 
'Change, and wear a hard, practical face. You may 
talk in the conventional patois of life, and try to con- 
vince those around you that you are a mill-stone, busily 
engaged in crushing sentiment, but you cannot cheat 
yourself. You are a living lie. You are too proud to 
acknowledge there is any poetry in your heart. But it 
is there, nevertheless, and when you least expect it, some 
strain of music, some song of a bird, some perfume of 
a flower, some thought in a book will bring it out. 
Deep down in the heart of man it rests. It may be a 
thought, it may be a principle, it may be only a remem- 
brance, but it is there in some shape. You may conceal 
it from your fellows, but when you are with yourself, you 
dare not deny it. You may forget it in the rush and 
din of trade, and the wheels of Mammon may drown 
its still, small voice, but there must be times when you 
retire within yourself and forget the practical ; and, in 
those moments, when there is no one near you, those 
moments which make a man of you, you think of what 
has been, and what might have been. Dare you deny 
that you have a little memento laid away — some long 
faded flower, some bit of ribbon, some little trinket — 
which is full of precious remembrances? Dare you 
deny that I found you the other day with a tear in your 
eye, as you stood looking at a wreath of faded white 
and green, which once rested upon the breast of a little 
sleeper, who came among us, and stayed but for a day, 
because they had need of her in Heaven ? It was not 



The Ai'biUus. 195 

your child. What was that dead wreath to you ? The 
angels did not rob you. It was simply, my dear Blobbs, 
a link between the seen and the unseen. It tied Heav- 
en and earth together. It suggested to you what might 
have been. It made you think of little eyes, you long 
had waited for, which never looked into yours ; of lit- 
tle feet, you long had waited for, which never made 
music in your house. It rekindled the ashes of a dead 
longing, and you dare not deny that you thought with 
unutterable pain, it were better to have possessed and 
lost, than never to have possessed at all. It was your 
better nature, Avhich you strive so hard to suppress, 
coming to the surface." 

And Mignon said : All of us have this sentiment in 
our composition, although the most of us are too proud , 
to acknowledge it. I have been in the woods in March, 
when the ground was covered with snow. I have care- 
fully pulled up the matted layers of dead leaves, and 
underneath all this debris was the arbutus, with its 
glossy, green leaves, and its pink and white petals, as 
full of beauty and delicious fragrance as if it had never 
been buried under the corruption of a dead year — as if 
it had never been hidden from the air and the sun. So 
in every heart, down under the snows of life, down un- 
der the dead, matted leaves of care, passion, sin, and 
shame, are growing flowers of sentiment. You will do 
well to uncover them now and then, for they will give 
beauty and perfume to your whole nature, and make 
you a better man or woman. And God grant, that 
when you clear away the debris, you do not find a 
grave of dead hopes." 

March 14, 1869. 



LENT AND CHILDREN. 




HEW ! 

Which is meant to express a sigh of relief that 
Lent is over. 

Isn't it nice? 

This saving one's soul on fish when fish commands a 
premium, is expensive and monotonous. 

Welcome the hens. Exit white-fish, enter eggs. 

Whew ! 

Would that we lived in the grand old days when the 
sun danced in the sky on Easter morning; when the 
children played the pretty games with colored eggs; 
when the Aldermen went out on Easter morn for a little 
municipal game of ball ; when it would have been my 
privilege to parade the streets and claim the privilege of 
lifting every woman three times from the ground, re- 
ceiving as payment a kiss or a silver shilling, the women 
having the same privilege on the next day, in order to 
make things even. 

Wouldn't it be nice? That is, if one didn't meet 
Parepa and undertake that little job. 

When the men and women threw apples into the 
churchyard, and those who had been married during the 
year threw three times as many as the rest. It strikes 
me, however, that if this rule had been reversed, and 
those who had been divorced during the year were 



Celeste. 197 

obliged to throw three times as many apples as the rest, 
the Chicago church-wardens would fare better. 

And then to go to the minister's and feast on bread, 
cheese and ale, on bacon and tansy pudding. 

As it is, the only relief one has now is the blessed 
feeling that he can go to sinning again. It is too much 
for any constitution to be strictly pious for six weeks, 
and live on beans and fish. Neither the moral nor the 
physical diet agrees with me. A little sin now will be 
an excellent tonic. 

And it will agree with you. Celeste, also. You didn't 
look well sitting in black, picking fish bones. I knew 
all the time you were thinking of the flesh pots. It is use- 
less for you to try to convince me that you have been an 
angel for the past six weeks. It won't do. There is 
not the slightest sign of a pin feather, even, on youi: 
pretty white shoulders. You are essentially human. I 
know that, eating your lentils, you sighed for the sal- 
ads, and filets, and Burgundy. I know that, in your 
suit of serge, your eyes were prospectively fixed upon 
the new spring hat and all the pretty petals which would 
unfold about you on Easter, and turn you into a lily, to 
blossom to-morrow, in accordance with the provisions 
of the Council of Nice. 

Isn't it nice? 

When you kept saying to yourself, all through Lent, 
tlmt you were a poor, weak, miserable creature, and that 
there was nothing but vanity in the world, I know you 
excepted that delightful fellow in black hair, with a 
divine moustache and taper fingers, who looked unutter- 
ably pretty things at you over the top of his prayer- 
book, divided his responses between you and Parson 



198 A Little Sin. 

Primrose, and wore a diamond ring on his third finger, 
which he managed, somehow, to keep directly in the 
light which streamed through St. John on the stained 
window. 

You are now absolved, my dear Celeste. Go in and 
sin just a little, and prove your humanity. You are not 
made to be an angel, but "a little lower than the 
angels," you know. Undrape your pretty rounded 
shoulders. Pile up your chignon. Put on those darl- 
ing white slippers, which leave footsteps almost as small 
as those of the robins in the early spring. No more 
cypress and rue on your corsage, but the wicked came- 
lia, and the flaunting azalia. Set your slow monastic 
march to a quicker tempo and, voila, the German. 
Sound fiddles and blow trombones, for Capuchin is now 
Columbine, and the gilded doors of Fashion swing 
quickly open for the maskers to enter. It is a merry - 
procession. Sly glances flash through the masks, and 
there are rounded outlines in the dominoes. Bells 
tinkle on the gay robes. Who is who ? What mat- 
ters it, so you keep the masks on ? Of course, the 
black mask, now and then, will enter and beckon to one 
or the other of us to come out with him to the ante- 
room and take off our masks, preparatory to a long 
journey with him. 

Heigh ho ! We shall never come back to the gay 
scene ; but the revel will go on just the same as if you 
and I had never been in the set. The fiddles will only 
play a little more forte, just loud enough to drown the 
dirge outside, and we shall go into the dreamless sleep, 
and grope our way through the shadowy land to the 
light beyond. Pray God, we all lay ourselves down 



Encumbrances. 199 

like true ladies and gentlemen, and that the bugles sing 
peace over us with all the world. 

Which reminds me to say, that in looking over the 
advertising columns, a few mornings since, I observed 
a card published by some party who desired boarders — 
" a gentleman and lady without encumbrances." 

Of course the "encumbrances" are children. I 
protest against the application of the term. If there 
be anything in the world which can make stale bread 
and hash palatable, it is a child. If there be anything 
which can bring a ray of sunshine into the dreary, 
gloomy desert of a boarding house, it is a child. 

I am bound to protest against this opposition to chil- 
dren, which is growing fiercer every day. Occasionally 
you will find a family with soul enough in its collective 
breast to admit a party with one child, with a mental 
reservation that they are entitled to a crown of glory 
for so doing. But what are those fond parents, whose 
nest is full of these lively and demonstrative pledges 
of conjugal affection, to do? A house which has not a 
little blue and gold edition of humanity, fluttering 
through its rooms, dancing, singing, and crowing, as 
full of love as an ^gg is of meat, whose sky is all sun- 
shine, or at most overcast by the thinnest of April 
clouds, sounding a jubilant peal of ecstacy in the morn- 
ing, and making the coming night doubly holy and 
beautiful with its little prayer at evening, must be a 
very lonely house. A house which has not a little crib 
in the nursery ; a mutilated battalion of dolls, minus 
legs, arms, and heads, looking for all the world as 
though they had just come from some Lilliputian battle ; 
marvelous books, reciting the exploits of the matronly 



200 In the House. 

Goose, the good fortune of Cinderella, and the bad 
fortune of Polly Flinders, scattered about in every room, 
sans covers, and tattered and torn ; little blue and red 
shoes and striped stockings in the drawers ; little finger- 
prints about the door-knobs and marks of juvenile in- 
dustry everywhere, such as combs in the coal scuttle, 
carving knives in the molasses jug, tea spoons in the 
stoves, a family bible illustrated with pencil marks, 
intended by the youthful Raphael to be letters to some 
distant aunt, or chefs (V ccuvrcs in natural history, sugar 
deftly mixed with the salt, Eau de Cologne in the slop 
jar, and your favorite arm chair harnessed with strings, 
and mustered into service as a horse-car — such a home 
must be as cheerful as the cell of a recluse. 

The house which has not seen the day change into 
night, and all the blessed sun-light extinguished ; which 
has not heard the music of childhood suddenly cease ; 
which listens in vain for the little footfalls pattering 
from room to room ; out from the doors of which a 
little coffin went one day, leaving a great blank, carry- 
ing with the little sleeper almost all our love, and hope, 
and faith ; the house which is not connected more 
closely with Heaven by that little billow of turf which 
will soon be starred all over with daisies — such a house 
must be very dreary. Children, encumbrances ! Bah ! 
The man or woman who wrote that card — it could not 
have been a woman — will never be troubled with heart 
disease. 

In the name, and for the sake of the children, I pro- 
test against this outrage upon these little people, whose 
mission it is to elevate, refine, and humanize us ; into 
whose pure, innocent faces one can look with so much 



Blue Paper Shoes. 201 

relief, after a day of intercourse with the rough, hard 
faces of the world ; who are the only reminders that 
there ever was an Eden, and who make Heaven possible 
on earth. 

I wouldn't trust a man with a torn five cent shin- 
plaster who didn't love a child. It is impossible for a 
woman not to love a child. Tliere never was a woman 
so depraved, or so unwomanly, but that a little child 
could find a good spot in her heart. 

And I not only protest against this term of " encum- 
brance," but I protest against the manner in which 
children are treated. The other day, I observed an 
elegantly dressed little child paddling along on the wet, 
muddy sidewalk, with the thinnest of blue paper shoes. 
Every step the little one took, must, inevitably, have 
dampened her feet. A foolish woman was walking by 
her side quite comfortably shod. 

I don't know that that foolish woman knew what she 
was doing, but I will tell her. In allowing your child 
to go out with those shoes, you were sowing the seeds 
of disease, which will either kill her before she leaves 
childhood, or send her into womanhood v/recked for 
life, and finally to die of consumption. If your child 
dies before leaving childhood, you will undoubtedly 
mourn as sincerely as did Rachel, and your good minis- 
ter will come to comfort you. He will assure you that 
" the Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away." He will 
tell you that whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth. He 
will also caution you against repining at an affliction 
wisely ordered by Divine Providence. 

All this may do as a salve for your sorrow ; but it 
isn't true. The Lord didn't take away your child. 



202 Shifting Responsibility. 

You yourself sent her away. This affliction was not 
ordered by Divine Providence. It was an affliction 
solely of your own preparation and consummation. No 
one else in the wide world is responsible for your child's 
death, and, but for you, she might have been living now. 
It may be very pleasant for you to cast the responsibil- 
ity upon Divine Providence, but it isn't fair. 

We are all of us too apt to shirk the responsibility, 
and, with a sort of meek, resigned, gracious wave of 
the hand, transfer the responsibility to Divine Provi- 
dence. But it won't do. You can't deceive Heaven 
in that way. 

You yourself hold that child's life in your hand. 
You can save her, or you can kill her by the mere mat- 
ter of thickness of leather. If you don't take off those 
blue shoes, woman, your child will die. Divine Provi- 
dence won't take off the shoes for you. The requisites, 
for the life of your child are common sense and a shoe- 
maker. It is criminally thoughtless for you to expose 
your child. It is cowardly for you, when your child 
dies, to try to shift the responsibility upon Heaven, 
which had nothing to do with it. If the epitaph was 
written properly or truthfully upon her little grave- 
stone, hereafter, it would read somewhat after the fol- 
lowing fashion : 

^crc jfficg \\)t SJolip of 
* * * * 

WUO DIED OF THIN SHOES AND MATERNAL FOLLY. 

Her Mother Did It. 

If what I have said shall get a pair of thick shoes 
for even one child, my purpose will be answered. 

March 27, 1809. 



BELLS. 




T the dinner table, the other day, we were dis- 
cussing the subject of bells, and we unanimous- 
ly regretted the fact that so many beautiful 
churches have been erected in this city without bells. 
A church without a bell is like a bush without roses, or 
a harp without strings. 

I believe it to be a Christian duty to hang a bell in 
every church-tower or steeple ; a bell dedicated to sol- 
emn and eternal things, dwelling in a realm of music, 
and swinging in the mid-heavens, to teach us of the 
mutability of earth ; a voice above us — above the din 
and roar of the city — above the strife of mammon and 
the jargon of trade — to warn, and to console, and to 
bring repose to us. And upon every bell, I would, if I 
had my way, cause to be engraved that solemn legend 
upon the bell in the minster of Schaffhausen : "Vivos 
voco; mortuos plango; fulguros frango," ("I call the 
living; I mourn the dead ; I break the lightnings.") 

We need more bells. Bells, whose evening chimes 
mourn the death of the day, and, like the song of the 
swan, are the sweetest when the day is done ; which, 
like the Ranz des Vaches of Switzerland, call man from 
his toil and hurry, to the night of repose, and into the 



204 The Wanderer. 

weird world of dreams; evening bells, like those which 
used to be rung to direct the wanderer through the for- 
ests to his nightly home, and which, as Jean Paul says, 
with his rare eloquence, have their parallel in the voices 
within us and about us, which call us in our straying, 
and make us calmer, and teach us to moderate our own 
joys and conceive those of others ; vesper bells, veiling 
all the landscape with a holy hush, and calling man to 
prayer; bells wafting the sweetest music over the water 
to the homeward-bound sailor, and coming to him like 
voices from home, softened by the twilight; bells to 
welcome him who has wandered the world over, with 
pilgrim's staff and scallop-shell, seeking for rest — who, 
tired with life's tumultuous pleasures, surfeited with its 
vain shows, and filled with nameless, unutterable long- 
ings, turns his face homeward again, and finds his heart 
leaping with joy at the familiar sound of the bells in the 
distant city — peal upon peal vibrating in sweet music, 
and telling him of home, and rest, and peace ; bells to 
break the peaceful silence of the Sabbath morning with 
the lingering cadences of their sweet concord — to sum- 
mon to worship, to rouse the ear, and to kindle the 
heart with praise ; bells to ring glad, jubilant peals of 
triumph — to proclaim peace — to wail with sorrow in 
their voices — to shriek, with warning alarum, the danger 
in the night. 

And if I had my way again, there should be a bell in 
every steeple to proclaim the birth, the wedding, and 
the death of man. When the child enters upon the 
rosy morning of life, the bells should be the first tones 
to strike upon his ear. Their music should greet him as 
his little feet take hold upon the rough highway of life, 



The Life Journey. 205 

from which they must sometimes stray into forbidden 
fields, on which they must become so begrimed, so 
weary and so tottering, and at the end of which they 
will find rest after the long wandering, sooner or later. 
When the child, grown into youth, enters upon marriage, 
the bells should ring their harmonious concord, and 
their glad tones should mingle with the orange flowers, 
and the mutual gifts and good wishes. The same bells 
which welcomed him as he started alone upon the jour- 
ney,' should Avelcome him now, as the way is made 
lighter by a companion, and roses grow in the paths 
where before there were only sharp pebbles and flint. 
And when the end of the road is reached, and the eye 
dims, and the flowers fade, and the blue sky is all cloud- 
ed over, and the two companions must part, the same 
bells tolling sadly and heavily from the steeples, should 
guide the weary traveller to his last home with their 
dirge-like tones. 

There are sorrow, music, joy and blessing in bells. 
The church tower may point to Heaven with Gothic 
solemnity, but, if no bell is there, no voice calls. Bells 
are sacred with associations. Year after year they have 
marked the flight of the hours in their perch in mid air, 
with no companions but the birds. They have looked 
down, year after year, upon grandfather, father, and son, 
grandmother, mother, and daughter, and followed them 
to their graves in the adjacent acre of God with solemn 
toll. They have rung glad peals of ecstacy to those 
who came before us, and have now gone, and they will 
ring the same glad peals to those yet to come. They 
are ringing for you and for me now, and they will ring 
on just the same when you and I are gone. It is now 



2o6 Church Bells. 

Te Deum, and now Requiem ; marriage bells of glad- 
ness, and funeral bells of woe. But I would that she, 
who will come after me, should hear the same bells that 
I hear, and that they should tell her the same melodic 
tidings they tell to me, and teach her the same lessons. 

Don't build any more churches without bells. Place 
a bell in every steeple. Consecrate it with joyful ser- 
vice. Bid it to ring for the living, and toll for the 
dying. Raise it to its belfry with glad acclamation, and 
then solemnly leave it there in the mid-heavens, above 
the jargon of earth, companion of the birds and the 
lightnings, to bring comfort, consolation, and repose for- 
ever to the weary — to warn, to inspire, and to gladden. 

At present the bells are confined to the pews in the 
church, and their tongues are not always musical. 

April 4, 18C9. 




TENORS AND BASSOS. 




|HE tenor, I take to be the happiest man in the 
world, or, at least, he ought to be. He is the 
individual whom all the operatic Elviras love. 
He loves them, also. He has all the serenades to sing. 
He alone can indulge in the ut de poitrine. Almost in- 
variably, he is allowed to die for the heroine, when he 
isn't permitted to marry her, and always has a fortissimo 
death-song given to him, which, like the swan's is the, 
sweetest. What little stage business there is, in the way 
of kneeling at the feet of the inamoratas, kissing of 
hands, and embracing of languishing Leonoras, belongs 
exclusively to him. He also can be the melancholy 
man, and drown susceptible damsels Avith tears, over his 
chalky grief and cork-lined wrinkles of woe. The 
women dote upon the tenor, send him little billets, look 
at him through the lorgnettes, and adore him in secret, 
as Heine's pine adored the palm. He finds bouquets 
upon his mantel, and little perfumed notes upon his 
dressing-table. If he be a tenor di grazia, lovely woman 
will sigh for him ; if a tenor robiisto, lovely woman will 
die for him, or wish that Heaven had made her such a 
man. The amateur tenor enjoys the same advantages 
as the operatic tenor, on a small scale. He is privileged 
to sing all the pretty things, and he may sing them as 



2o8 The Tenor. 

badly as may be, if he is only interesting. He is the 
idol before which female bread-and-butterhood bends, 
both Grecian and otherwise. He is usually fragile, 
spii'ituel and delicate. He sleeps on the underside of a 
rose-leaf, drinks Angelica, eats caramels, and catches 
butterflies. He carries his voice in a lace pocket-hand- 
kerchief, when in the open air, and does it up in amber 
when he retires to sleep upon the rose-leaves. He alone 
is permitted to wear white kids and vest, and otherwise 
array himself after the manner of the festive hotel wait- 
er. He knows the secret of immortal youth, and never 
grows old. All tuneful lays set to the tinkling of flutes, 
guitars and harps, belong to him. He alone can sing 
to the moon and address the stars. In his repei'toire 
are all the interesting brigands, the high-born cavaliers, 
the romantic lovers, and the melancholy artists. 

And he has nice legs, or, if he hasn't, he had better 
degenerate into a baritone, and have done with it. 

A tenor without nice legs is worse off" than a soprano 
who can't sing "With Verdure Clad," if there be such 
a 7-ara avis, or an alto who has to do Siebel and Maffco 
Orsini with elephantine ankles, and there never was an 
alto in the world with whom I wouldn't measure feet, 
and give them the odds of one or two numbers. 

The tenor lives in clover, chin deep, and never gets 
stung by the bees. Sometimes he forgets to wrap up 
his voice in the handkerchief when he goes out, or he 
sleeps in the direct line of a current of air, which 
comes in under the door, and the result is an indisposi- 
tion. When he has an indisposition, he goes off hunt- 
ing ducks at Calumet, instead of dears in the audience, 
and the manager forgives him and the audience pity 



The Basso. 209 

him. He doesn't die like other singers, but gradually 
fades away like the rose, and disappears in a little cloud 
of perfume. 

The basso, on 'the other hand, is the personification 
of vocal misery, and he knows it. He feels that he is 
not interesting at all. He knows the women don't 
adore him, and he takes a fiendish delight in bellowing 
at them. He never has an opportunity to languish on 
the stage, or to go round kneeling and sighing and kiss- 
ing of hands. He is never a lover. If a brigand, he 
is a dirty cut-throat. If a cavalier, he is some dilapi- 
dated old duke, with a young and pretty wife, just pack- 
ing up preparatory to elopement with the tenor, and 
requesting him not to interfere with her little arrange- 
ments. If a sailor, he is a swaggering pirate. If an 
uncle, he is a miser. If a mayor, he is a simpleton. If 
a father, he is a fool. The composers never give him 
but one aria in an opera, and that is always written an 
octave higher than he can sing, or an octave lower than 
his boot heel. He is always in trouble with the orches- 
tra. He knows he can squelch the first fiddles and 
reeds, and come out even with the bassoons and double 
basses, but the man with the trombone is his mortal 
enemy, and the man with the kettle-drums his skeleton. 
He feels in his heart of hearts that the one can blow 
him into ribbons, and the other pound him to a jelly, 
and what is more, he knows they are never happy, ex- 
cept when they are engaged in that pulverizing process. 
What little singing he has to do is devoted to panegyr- 
ics upon beer, dissertations upon cookery, and lugu- 
brious screeds upon the infidelity of woman and his 
own ponderous wretchedness. When he is not confined 

15 



2 1 o His Repertoire. 

to this, he is set up for a laughing stock in buffo work. 
He has no runs and trills and sky-rockets with which to 
dazzle people. He knows that one of his long arias is 
like a long sermon. He usually has so much voice in 
his copper-lined and brass-riveted throat, that it invari- 
ably gets the better of him, either running like mo- 
lasses in cold weather, or coming out by fits and starts, 
and leaking all round the edges. He must inevitably 
sing false, and it makes him unhappy. He is not at all 
delicate, being usually doubly blessed in chest and 
stomach, and the result is, he can't get sick if he tries. 
The blessed indisposition which so often gets into the 
velvet throat of the tenor, rarely gets into his, conse- 
quently his opportunities for duck-hunting at the Calu- 
met are very limited. All of these afflictions make him 
misanthropical, and he goes through the world with his 
little repertoire of "The Calf of Gold," " Infelice,". 
" O mio Palermo," " The Last Man," and the " Wan- 
derer," a very Ishmael of wretchedness, and a howling 
Dervish of despair. He drinks beer, and all sorts of 
fiery damnations, eats sausage and kraut with impunity, 
and smokes villainous tobacco in short clay pipes. He 
despises the razor and eschews the little weaknesses of 
kids and patent leathers. The tenor is the nightingale ; 
he is the crow. The tenor is the beloved of women, but 
for him no serenade, no face in the lattice shaming the 
moon with its brightness and beauty. I pray, therefore, 
all gentlefolk to deal kindly with the basso, and make 
his rough road as smooth as possible, for it is as inevita- 
ble as fate that he will live to an hundred years of age, 
and sing every blessed day of the century, and will 
finally be gathered to his fathers, singing as he goes. 



Street Music. 211 

And, as he goes singing to his fathers, I have another 
topic of which he reminds me. As I sit here writing, 
some poor fellow, who has got through with the troubles 
of the world, is going home to sleep under the turf, 
which is now so restless with all the quick impulses of 
spring-life, and which will soon weave a green and 
flower-embroidered counterpane above him. A band is 
playing a dirge, the wail and melancholy rhythm of 
which fall unheeded upon his ears, forever closed to the 
sweet sounds of the earth. To me, there is something 
ineffably sad in the playing of a dirge in the open air. 
The funereal solemnity of the music contrasts so strange- 
ly with the beauty of the clear heavens and the joyous 
life of nature, and interweaves an Andante so unexpect- 
edly in the Scherzo of the din and jargon of the busy 
street life, that I cannot keep the tears out of my eyes, 
and I cannot but pause for a minute, on my journey, to 
think. And I think of the day when I shall drop out 
of the comedy of life and some one else will take up my 
part and go on with it, as if I had never been in the 
play at all. I think that, some bright morning, A will 
meet B on the street and say: "Did you know that 

died yesterday?" "No! Is that so? What was 

the matter with him?" And then the two will talk of 
grain and corner lots, for it was only a bubble that dis- 
appeared on the great tide of humanity, ever flowing 
from one eternity to another. I wonder if anyone will 
remember me from one spring-birth of flowers to an- 
other. And I think of those standing about me, with 
their hearts beating to the time of the dirges, and with 
each pulsation approaching a step nearer to the long 
sleep. And, somehow, although the dirge saddens me, 



2 12 A Grave Complaint, 

by sending a shadow across the brightness of the sunny 
day, I think I feel the better for having heard it. 

But this will not be the last I shall see or hear of this 
procession. I know that, an hour later, the mourners 
will have dried their tears, and that they who went to 
the grave, marching slowly and with sober countenan- 
ces, to the movement of the Dead March, will return to 
the quick tempo of "Champagne Charlie," or some 
other musical abomination. Have we no respect for the 
dead ! Is it creditable to common humanity to go 
through the streets uttering a funereal lie — to shovel a 
man into his grave, and, while the grave-maker is pat- 
ting the turf with his shovel, to come trotting home to 
the music of a ribald Casino song? Is human life of no 
more account than this? Is the life of our friend of so 
little consequence, when compared with the nonsense 
and delusions of this world, that we leave him and all- 
recollections of him with the grave-maker? Is there no 
sober, serious thought for us in the new-made grave? 
If there is not — if, when a man dies, he dies like a 
horse, only to be shoved out of sight, the quicker the 
better, that we may not be delayed any longer than 
possible from the exactions of business and distractions 
of pleasure — I pray that those who have these public fu- 
nerals in charge, may at least consult the feelings of 
some, to whom such inconsiderate and irreverent un- 
concern for the dead is a fearful shock. 

April 17, 1869. 



A CHILD'S STORY— THE THREE ROSES. 




WRITE to you to-day with a certain sort of 
sadness, and yet not mourning as one without 
hope. 

I think one can become strongly attached to inani- 
mate things, and, after associating with them for years, 
come to invest them with certain human attributes, and 
even to love them, They grow to be part of one's self, 
and reflect, in some degree, the individuality of the 
possessor. I have now sat for nearly three years at the 
old desk before me, in the same old corner, with the 
same blank prospect of brick walls and the little patch 
of blue sky no bigger than the lace handkerchief which 
swings from your finger, my dear Madame, and dis- 
coursed each week upon all sorts of pleasant topics in 
my careless way, always satisfied if here and there you 
might find a little flower worth laying away in your 
memory as a souvenir. Many of you who started 
on our journey through the World of Amusement are 
with me still, but some have left and gone up higher to 
the Beautiful Country ; and one cruel summer which 
killed so many birds and blighted so many flowers, we 
all travelled with heavier hearts, thinking of the little 
ones whom the jealous angels enticed away, and some of 

15* 



214 The Old Desk. 

us could hardly see the way for a time for the black 
shadow of the valley and the mists which were in our 
eyes. 

I shall write to you no more from the old desk in the 
old corner, for, when next Saturday comes, I shall be at 
the new desk, in a new corner of the new building, and 
yet I cannot part from it without regret, for I have learned 
to love it, ink-begrimed, scratched and cut as it is. There 
are pleasant memories indelibly connected with it, 
and the next owner who possesses it will be richer 
than he knows, for he will buy some priceless asso- 
ciations. I frankly confess that I look forward to 
the new desk with some suspicions. It will be a better 
desk, a handsomer desk. The old, tried friend, whom 
you have grappled to yourself, as with hooks of steel, 
through storms and shine, it is hard to give up for the 
new comer, whom you have to learn before you can love, - 
and who may deceive you, when it is all too late. And 
yet it is cheerful to know that when I say good-bye to 
the old desk next week, you will acom})any me to the 
new desk, and that I shall continue to talk to you so 
long as it shall please you to listen. Aurelia, and the 
baby and husband. Celeste, Fitz-Herbert, Mignon and 
Blanche, and Old Blobbs and Mrs. Blobbs, will all go 
with me, and Old Blobbs has promised me that he will 
have something to say next Sunday from the new desk. 

In this, my last letter from the old desk, I frankly 
state that I am going to say something to the children. 
You know that I thoroughly believe in children. I 
think they represent nearly all the love, and innocence, 
and purity there is in the world, and I want to tell them 
a story which may lead them to preserve that love, and 



The Story. 215 

innocence, and purity, until the end. I therefore warn 
all the grown up children, that this story is for the little 
ones, so that those desiring to leave, can go now, with- 
out disturbing us after we have commenced. Should 
any desire to remain, I hope they will keep as still 
as possible. Perhaps they will hear something which 
will benefit them. We will therefore wait a few minutes, 
after which the doors will be closed. 

The story is a simple one, but it has its lesson for you. 
Some of those older ones, who have just gone out, if 
they were here, would tell you, even with tears in their 
eyes, that it is true. It is the story of the Three Roses. 
One of them was a 

WHITE ROSE. 

This white rose grew in a large garden, where there' 
were many other flowers : great, coarse, vulgar dahlias, 
always dressing in gaudy colors, without any regard to 
taste ; delicate little anemones, who would drop their 
petals off in fright, if even a bee went buzzing by them ; 
tulips, in whose breast the butterflies used to sleep ; 
blue-bells, who rang the matins for the other flowers to 
wake, and the vespers for them to drop their little 
heads and fold up their petals in sleep ; azaleas, who 
were very jealous of the fuschias, because the latter had 
a graceful way of hanging from their stalks, which the 
former could not get, although they tried until they 
were pink in the face; heliotropes, and their little cous- 
ins, the mignonettes, whom all the flowers loved for 
their sweetness, and never could see that it was because 
they were so humble that their lives were so full of per- 



2i6 The White Rose. 

fume ; passion-flowers, whose lives were full of pain ; 
and those sensitive little flowers who were so nervous, 
that if you even pointed your finger at them, they 
would shiver all over, and draw themselves up in a 
heap. The White Rose was a very proud flower. She 
always dressed in pure white, with a beautiful gold 
ornament on her breast, and devoted most of her time 
to lazily swinging in the wind, admiring her beautiful 
garments. She never recognized other flowers in the 
garden. She never even condescended to notice the 
butterflies and the bees, who were great friends with 
the rest of the flowers. She would now and then nod 
to the green-and-gold humming-birds, who took good 
care, however, to keep out of her way, because they 
were afraid of her thorns. She had set her cap very 
high, and would marry nothing short of a prince, and 
thus she slighted some of her friends, and wounded oth- • 
ers with her cruel thorns. 

One day the prince came by that way, and his name 
was Zephyr. He was a gay, careless young fellow, with- 
out any heart in him. He came from a far country, and 
in his travels had flirted with every one. He had ruined 
many flowers in other gardens. He had even dallied 
with the tender leaves in the tree tops, of an evening, 
until the stern old trees angrily kept him away. Troops 
of the ghosts of the dandelions and pink thistles and 
young gossamers, whom he had deceived, followed in 
his train, and even the blue-birds, and robins, and ori- 
oles, were enamored of him, and kept the air full of 
melody, singing to him. Prince Zephyr came gaily 
dancing over the garden, and all the little flowers nod- 
ded their heads to him. T.\i White Rose looked her 



Pride. 217 

prettiest, and at once beckoned him to come to her, 
and hid all her thorns. The two were long together, 
even until the sun went down, and the blue-bell had 
rung her vespers. It would have been well for the 
White Rose to have gone to sleep too ; but Prince 
Zephyr dallied with her, and whispered all sorts of 
pretty nothings to her, and the foolish flower listened to 
him, and believed all he said. He promised to be true 
to her, and to return in the morning ; and when they 
kissed good night, he stole away her perfume, which 
was her life. When the morning came, however, Prince 
Zephyr did not return. Many mornings came, but 
Prince Zephyr was far away, whispering that same sweet 
story to other roses, in other gardens. And the White 
Rose waited in vain, and withered and died, and was 
buried by the larch-tree in the corner of the garden, 
the cypress, and rue, and rosemary being the mourner^ 
at the funeral, the birds singing the hymns, and the 
little many-legged bugs in the grass, making the orches- 
tra, with the bee at the baton. 

And the name of the White Rose was Pride, which 
must always have a fall, my dear children. 

But there was another rose. It was the 

RED ROSE. 

The Red Rose grew by the side of a tiny little brook, 
which had nothing to do the livelong day but to dance 
over its pebbles, and sing pretty songs, and laugh in 
the sunshine. The Red Rose was very discontented 
with her lot, for there was no one around with whom 
she could associate, but white and red clovers, dande- 
lions and butter-cups. The Brook, who was a garrulous 



2i8 The Red Rose. 

little fellow, made her still more discontented, by telling 
her what fine things there were out in the world, and 
how she would enjoy them if she would go with him 
and see them. One day, tired of looking into the 
Brook and seeing only herself, she dropped into his 
arms, and he tenderly carried her along. She floated 
very lazily and pleasantly along for a time, for the 
heavens were all blue, and the sunshine was bright, and 
the Brook was smooth, and so they rode along merrily 
together. The wild laurels, and red Betties, and Jack-in- 
the-pulpit, and starry asters, crowded together on the 
marges of the Brook to see her pass, and nodded to her. 
The white lilies who grew in the Brook rippled the water 
with their mocking laughter, for they knew her fate. 
The sober ferns warned her, but she paid no heed to the 
warning, and sailed down the meadow as proudly as 
Cleopatra under her silken sails on the turbid Nile. By 
and bye she got out of the meadow and it Avas not so 
pleasant. The flowers disappeared, and she had hard 
work to avoid the flags and rushes, and old gnarled 
stumps, and the sun was hidden by the interlaced tree- 
tops, and there were all sorts of water-spiders and little 
glossy black bugs which she disliked. After a time, the 
frogs and the water-snakes terrified her, and one day she 
found herself in a little whirlpool which made her dizzy. 
When she recovered, she was in the foam of a water-fall, 
and the foam-bells dazzled her so with their sheen 
that she plunged about among the rocks very wildly and 
before she emerged from them, some of her petals were 
badly damaged. It was now too late to return. She 
had made the first fall and she must go on. She no 
longer recognized the little Brook in the brawling. 



Folly. 219 

muddy waters which carried her through the rank 
swamps, where she met all kinds of noxious, ill-favored 
flowers, the hemlock, and nightshade, and belladonna, 
and poisonous ivies, which mocked her. The Brook 
was now a river, and too wide for her to escape. On 
she must go, ever on, bruised and weary as she was, and 
presently the river swept her through a great city, rank 
with corruption and filth ; swept her past the vessels at 
the wharves, loading and unloading, and noisy with the 
curses and cries of the sailors ; under the wheels of 
steamboats ; now sunk into the corrupt depths, and now 
rising to the surface again, but so changed that none of 
the flowers in the country, who nodded to her that 
bright morning, would ever have known her; under the 
arches of the bridges and close by slimy mouldering 
piers; and one evening, so close to the dead body of a 
woman, who had hurled herself out of the world and 
out of misery, that she almost got tangled in the 
streaming black hair which rose and fell in the turbid 
current ; and so on, until one morning she found her- 
self out of the river and into the mighty surges of the 
ocean, when it was all too late. 

And the name of the Brook was Pleasure and the name 
of the Red Rose, Folly. 

I have now to tell you of the third rose, the 

WILD ROSE. 

The Wild Rose grew in a forest, and was a simple 
modest flower, who was sheltered in the winter from 
the cruel winds by the mighty pines. In the spring and 
summer she was even more beautiful than the White 
Rose or the Red Rose, although she had a tiny little 



2 20 Wisdom. 

petal of white just suffused with a bkish. Her leaves 
were very small but they were very fragrant. There 
were no other flowers in the forest for her to love, and so 
she loved a Star which she used to see every night 
through the branches of the trees. Sometimes when the 
dew fell in the night, the Star would come to her in the 
drops, and she could see and feel his radiance on her 
petals, although she could never go to the Star. And 
there was a little Child who, sometimes, used to roam 
through this forest, who loved the Rose, and used to 
stop and talk to it in her childish way, and the Star, 
which the Rose loved, was the Child's Star. For, even 
for each little child, shines a star which is its own — a 
star which always rains down blessed influences upon it 
— a star which will always guide the child if it will but 
follow. One day the Child did not come to the forest, 
for an Angel had come down out of the blue heavens 
— the Angel of Death — and forever closed the eyes of the 
little one and sealed its ears to the sweet sounds of earth, 
and hushed its merry prattle forever, and strangers went 
to the forest and plucked the Rose which the little Child 
had loved, and they placed it in the cold marble hands, 
and the Angel of Light, the sister of the Angel of 
Deatli, came and took the Child and the Rose and 
carried them to the Star, and the three were re-united 
and were happy. 

And the name of the Wild Rose was Wisdom. 

These are the stories of the Three Roses, which I tell to 
you, my children, upon the old desk, before I leave it 
forever, and I pray Heaven for you all, blue eyes and 
black eyes, brown hair and gold hair, whether you live 
in hovel or in hall, whatever ways your little feet may 



The Roses. 



221 



wander, that they go not in the way of the White Rose 
which is that of disappointment leading to death ; 
neither in the way of the Red Rose which is that of folly 
leading to ruin ; but in the way of the Wild Rose, which 
is that of contentment and wisdom. 

April 34, 1809. 




THE OLD. 




N this May-Day, when Nature is putting on her 
new spring suit of green, and decking herself 
with new buds and flowers ; when every blade 
of grass shooting up through the brown sod, and every 
(juaint little package of leaf unrolling itself on the 
bough are new; when restless men and women, carting 
their Lares and Penates through the streets, are seeking 
new homes; when new breezes from the North come, 
shiveringly down upon us, telling new stories they 
learned of the icebergs on their way; and when new 
asparagus and onions are coming into the market ; on 
this new day, I am free to confess I like the old. 

I like old books. I think there is more virtue, and 
wit, and sense, and solid stuff in the old tomes — brass- 
clasped and vellum-paged mayhap, made to last forever 
by the old worthies, over whose heads hundreds of 
springs have come and gone, and generations of birds 
have sung, and they none the wiser, for they left 
their souls in the tomes — than in the reams of gaudy 
modern trash, born in all sorts of ways, in all sorts of 
places, and of all sorts of parents, with lives as perman- 
ent as a tadpole's, and, like many a human being, carry- 
ing all the usefulness and beauty they possess in their 



Old Wine and Songs. 223 

covers. Gilt goes a great way with a book, as it does 
with a man. There are a great many gilded men and 
women it won't do to touch or examine too closely. 
The moment you handle them, the gilt rubs off and 
shows the pewter underneath. There are a great many 
books of the same description. 

I like old wine. There is virtue in the mildewed, 
cobwebbed bottle, which one of your family, whose 
portrait hangs in the hall because he is a little old fash- 
ioned for the drawing room, placed in the cellar years 
ago. Break the neck of the bottle, and. see how the 
imprisoned genii of the wine leap sparkling into the sun- 
shine, clad in gold, and fragrant as a rose you stumble 
upon in the woods. No aquafortis, logwood, or burnt 
shavings here. This is the nectar which refreshed the 
giants of old time, which Horace sang, and Anacreon 
drank, with which Dante pledged Beatrice, and which - 
runs through Bethoven's Scherzos, and inspired the 
Brindisis of the masters. 

I like old songs into which the writers have poured 
their souls ; songs as full of passion and pain as the 
West sometimes is full of thunder clouds ; songs full of 
sadness which is not the boisterous wo of the hired 
mute, but as unobtrusive and gentle as the summer rain ; 
songs full of the quaintness, and delicacy, and beauty 
which time has only mellowed, and which come down 
to us hallowed with associations which cluster around 
them like vines. Now and then you get a song which 
touches the heart at once, but a song, like a friend, 
must have been tested by experience before you can 
fully receive it. Who would not take Mendelssohn's 
" First Violet," and gladly give up all the flower-songs 



2 24 Old Friends. 

of to-day ? Has the religion of to-day anything more 
delicately beautiful and graceful than Herrick, anything 
more massive and majestic than the " Ein Feste Berg " ? 
Do our modern lovers sing such dainty serenades as 
Spenser and Sidney sang to their Phyllises ? 

I like old friends. A man can't afford to have too 
many friends. It is too expensive in the social econ- 
omy, not in the matter of dollars and cents, but in the 
personal wear and tear they occasion one. A man with 
a thousand friends is worse off than the Wandering Jew. 
A man with five hundred friends is to be pitied. A 
man with a hundred friends is a victim. A man with 
fifty friends is happy in a quiet way. A man with 
twenty-five friends can find time to be a philosopher. 
A man with ten friends, one for each finger, each one 
of whom will stick to him like his fingers, is justified in 
crying " Eureka" over the discovery of perfect happi-. 
ness. The result of my observations in a feminine di- 
rection, is, that women are so made that they will be 
inconsolable without a thousand dear friends, to whom 
they are bound by the tenderest ties until death, and 
ten thousand other friends entitled to the confidences 
which distract the female breast, without which relief, 
the female breast would be simply a pent up Vesuvius. 
If, therefore, you have ten friends, and they are old 
friends who have travelled all along the journey with 
you, through storm and through sunshine, with any one 
of whom you would exchange your personal identity, I 
congratulate you. 

It is because I like old things that I paid a visit to the 
old Tribune Buildings. I have a passion for old build- 
ings. The smell of antiquity about them is as refreshing 



The Old Building. 225 

in the modern combination of smells as the bouquet of 
good wine in a villainous beer cellar. I like to trace all 
the habits and peculiarities of the dead and gone men 
and women, which, in the process of time, have been 
ingrained into the building, and become part and parcel 
of it. I have no objection to a ghost or two — none of 
your mice in the wainscotting, or swaying beams in the 
attic, but the good old-fashioned ghost of some poor 
soul, with streaming black hair and pale face, who con- 
cealed her malady and carried her secret with her under 
the turf, and, discontented in Heaven, must come back 
to the old place where he used to be, and walk under 
the trees where they used to walk — the trees which 
know the secret as well as she, for they heard it ; or the 
ghost of the boy who ran away and went to sea and 
never came home again, whose sad story most any wave 
crawling up the sand will tell you, if you will listen' 
aright ; or the ghost of that wrinkled old flint who hid 
his ingots under the tiles of the hearth, and comes back 
now and then to see if they are safe. 

I did not see any spirits in the old building ; quite the 
contrary. There was a great deal of life there. It was 
night when I went there, but by the moonlight I saw 
some strange sights. Our late co-tenants, the rats, mice, 
cockroaches and spiders, were holding a general mass- 
meeting in the various rooms, discussing the changed 
aspect of affairs. An antique rat, of venerable appear- 
ance and gray whiskers, covered with the scars of many 
a hard-fought fight, and with a tail sadly mutilated by 
the numerous inkstands and paper-weights which had 
followed him into his hole many a time and oft, occu- 
pied the Managing Editor's old desk, the empty pigeon- 



226 A Curious Meetino-. 



^ 



holes of which brought him into admirable perspective. 
He acted as Chairman of the meeting, and presided 
with dignity, holding a dusty document in his hand for 
a gavel, which had been laid away fifteen years ago as 
of immense value, and never thought of since — ^just as 
you and I, you know, who think we are of so much 
value, will be laid away shortly in a pigeon-hole, and 
never thought of again. Several rows of rats, who had 
come down from a former generation, occupied an old 
table, sitting erect, and manifesting a proper apprecia- 
tion of the spirit of the meeting. The younger rats 
were compelled to shift for themselves, and were 
sprinkled about the floor. The gas pipe running uj) the 
wall was festooned with mice who looked down upon 
the assembly with interested countenances, while the 
three blind mice of song notoriety could be distin- 
guished by their tails, that is, as much of their tails as 
escaped the carving knife, which protruded from a hole 
in the wall. Being bereft of the blessing of sight, it 
was but natural that they should make the mistake of 
turning their backs upon the Chairman, but they could 
hear all that was said. The rat who lived in a well, and 
who, when he died, went to a warmer climate, you may 
not be aware returned from that place some time since. 
He was present as an invited guest from the Museum. 
The cockroaches looked out of the cracks in every 
direction, and balanced themselves dexterously on 
shreds of wall paper. The spiders occupied the centres 
of their webs, apparently asleep, but in reality wide 
awake, as one unfortunate blue-bottle fly found, who 
got caught, and was immediately served up and sent to 
the spiders of the Local-Room as a present. Besides 



The Proceedings. 227 

these, there were a few score of old fogy mosquitoes, 
left over from last year, and a handsome representation 
of those quiet little brown bugs addicted to bedsteads, 
and pronounced odor, whom I do not like to mention 
by name. The Chairman was listening to the com- 
plaints of the multitude, for famine was staring them in 
the face, and some means must be adopted for self-pres- 
ervation. A motion to serve out an injunction on the 
Tribune Company, and compel them to replace the 
goods they had carried away, was canvassed, but failed 
of rat-ification. One large, portly rat, with a very 
benevolent face, and getting gray, whom I at once re- 
cognized as an old friend I had seen on my old desk 
many a time, banqueting on paste, was complaining 
particularly of me. He characterized such conduct as 
despicable in the highest degree. It was a betrayal of 
friendship, a breach of confidence, and he would never' 
again repose trust in a biped. All that he had found in 
my desk, during a visit that evening, was a dried up 
bouquet or two, rusty pens, one scissor blade, a photo- 
graph of a superannuated prima donna, a paper of pins, 
and a huge package of tickets to amateur concerts. 
There was a time when he was young and strong. In 
those days he could gnaw a file, and derive considerable 
culinary consolation from a paper-weight, but now he 
was obliged to conform his diet to a weakened digestion 
and disordered liver. He spoke more in sorrow than 
in anger, and regretted that Pickle should be fickle. 

At this point, a young mouse, perched upon the top 
of the gas pipe, in a piping voice complained that he 
had just commenced going through Abbott's History of 
the War. It was slow work, but he had got through 



2 28 Complaints. 

the covers, and part way through the introduction, and 
he didn't Hke to be interrupted in this manner. It Avas 
true he hadn't derived much sustenance from the thing, 
but it was a matter of principle when he commenced a 
piece of work, to keep at it if it killed him. Some 
fifteen or twenty old fossilized rats, with their wrinkled 
faces, scanty hairs and shrunk shanks, made the same 
complaint with reference to the Patent Office Reports 
and commercial statistics. To be sure they had not 
thriven well. One of them had devoured half the 
Georgian Bay Canal ; another had swallowed two 
Board of Trade Reports, and had got as far as lard in 
the third, to which he was looking forward with great 
expectations, being then unprofitably engaged upon 
lumber ; a third had almost exhausted himself with 
devouring a census table, and was just in sight of some 
quotations of cheese; a fourth had swallowed the Smith- 
sonian Institution, and put the Covode Investigation on 
the top of it, and was just ready to attack the American 
Cyclopedia, in which he was sure to find something to 
agree with him and repay him for the time he had 
wasted. A sentimental little mouse complained that 
she had just got into Mrs. E. D. E. N. Alphabet 
Southworth's '■'■ How He Won Her," and was inter- 
rupted, at a critical moment, when "he" and "her" 
were about to say something nice. She was dying to 
know " how he won her," and she might go down to 
a premature grave without the knowledge of that inter- 
esting secret. A grave looking rat, with a streak of 
white fur around his neck, and troubled with a slight 
cough arising from an affection of the throat, an- 
nounced that he had devoted several nights of hard 



Complaints. 229 

labor, in getting through the back of a Biblical Cyclo- 
pedia, and had just reached the title page. All the 
world was before him. Vistas of Hebraic and other 
sorts of lore, opened before his longing eyes. He was 
about to enter, when the prize was snatched away. He 
consoled himself with the reflection that all earthly mat- 
ters are illusions, but he could not help thinking now 
and then how pleasant that Cyclopedia would have been. 
There was one wretched old rat who had eaten up a 
volume of Swinburne, two duplicates of Walt Whitman, 
and was feasting upon a gorgeous picture of the specta- 
cle of Undine. He had eaten up four blonde wigs, 
sixteen legs of ballet girls, and left eight coryphees with 
a leg apiece. He was very indignant over his disap- 
pointment, and even swore about it, for which he was 
called to account by the grave-looking rat with a slight 
cough. The wicked rodent growled out something in' 
broken Rattish, and retired to his hole, out of which he 
shook his tail in defiance. Presently four or five good 
little mice, whom I had not observed before, with their 
faces very clean, and their fur smoothed down very 
sleekly, made their complaint in a weak kind of utter- 
ance. It was to the effect that they had discovered a 
little stock of Sunday School books in a paper box, 
which were very affecting, and narrated how "Little 
Freddie" and "Good Teddie " and others, commit- 
ted forty feet of texts in one day, which disagreed with 
them so that they died very early, not being good 
enough for this world. They had just succeeded in get- 
ting into the box, and now the books were gone. 

In this manner, complaint after complaint was made, 
and the meeting adjourned to another evening without 



230 A Can- Can. 

taking action. You should have seen the assembly- 
after adjournment. The whole mass of rats and mice 
rushed pell-mell through the dusty heaps of papers on 
the floor. One set danced a polka on fragments of 
editorials touching the finances and internal revenue, 
taxation and other topics. In the local room a rather 
spare rat, with long reddish hair, mounted the City 
Editor's desk, and read off, to the edification of the 
crowd, several mutilated fragments of a " Horrible 
Murder," " Atrocious Villainy in Bridgeport," "De- 
structive Fire in Holstein," "Scandal Case on Michi- 
gan Avenue," " Religious Announcements," etc. In 
the Commercial Room several casualties occurred. One 
unfortunate mouse was nearly choked to death with a 
column of figures which he found on the floor, and 
attempted to swallow. Another, of a sentimental turn 
of mind, went insane trying to understand some com- - 
mercial quotations he found in an antique looking scrap- 
book, and three incautious little mice, venturing too 
hastily into Colbert's Astronomy, fell into the Dipper 
and couldn't get out, until an old rat helped them with 
the North Pole and a line dropped from the plane of 
the ecliptic, through the parallax of the sun, whatever 
that is. In another room, the cockroaches had a carni- 
val in the Night Editor's coffee-pot. It was one of the 
most touching sights in the world to see them enter in 
festive procession at the top and come out through the 
nose. On my own old desk, twenty-three assorted 
cockroaches, of a beautiful bronze color, each one of 
whom I have killed twenty-three times in twenty-three 
various ways, were dancing a can-can. A few of the 
odoriferous, small brown bugs stood roimd in various 



Farewell. 231 

attitudes, like supernumeraries, while an old rat, against 
whom I once swore eternal war, as Hannibal swore 
against the Romans, beat time with his stump of a 
tail. I forgave the rat, but I shall never forget the 
scene. I shall miss those cockroaches in the coming 
days, surrounded by the inanimate splendors of the 
new desk, upon which I write you to-day, looking no 
more upon the brick walls, but sitting in a flood of 
roseate light, which pours through the new window 
from the dying day. I could not bear to interfere 
with tlie sports t)f those poor creatures, and I left them 
there in the moonlight, engaged in their wild revels. 
I cannot say with any degree of veracity that I loved 
them while living with them, but still I know that I 
shall miss them, and their innocent little ways. 

To rat, and mouse, and cockroach, and odoriferous 
bug, and spider ; to the old desk, and the withered' 
bouquets ; to the old rooms, which have seen so many 
come and go, and one of tempered judgment, and calm 
speech, of dignified presence and upright life, a fast 
friend and sure adviser, who left us one morning to 
rejoin her who had gone to Heaven a little while before 
him ; to many pleasant associations and happy scenes ; 
to the familiar stairs worn deeply with the yearly tread 
of feet as the water weareth away the rock ; to all but 
memory, hail and farewell ! And welcome the new ! 

May 1, 1869. 



OLD BLOBBS' OPINIONS. 




LD Blobbs came up to see me the other day. 
He breathed very hard when he came into the 
room, was very red in the face, and wiped his 
forehead vigorously with his yellow bandanna, for the 
stairs troubled him somewhat. Blobbs is not what he 
was forty years ago — a broad-breasted, strong-legged, 
deep-lunged young fellow. The bucket creaks now in 
the well, and the grasshopper begins to be a burden. - 
We all hope the pitcher may not be broken for a long 
time to come, but we see many signs that he is on the 
sun-down side of the hill, and in his melancholy moods 
he talks about the shadows down in the valley whither 
he is going. I think, however, that he will never cease 
his hatred of shams ; that he will always delight to 
strip off all the fine clothes from human pretence ; that 
he will never admit that respectability is whatever keeps 
a gig, and that, under all the rubbish of the world, he 
will contend there is something real, and that it is his 
duty to find it out. He believes, as I do, that this great 
world is a type of the Godlike ; that the history of man 
from the days when Adam dwelt in Eden, down to this 
blessed May morning, so full of spring's odorous prom- 
ise, is a gospel in itself j that the morning stars sing 



The National Sin. 233 

together now as of old ; and that our souls are kept in 
subservience to our bodies, running of errands for them, 
or concealed beneath aprons doing the work of the 
waiter, these starry strangers who should only be allowed 
to fulfil their own missions. 

When Blobbs had recovered his breath, he signified 
his desire to say a few words from the new desk, and I 
left him in possession. When I returned, I found the 
following, written in a large, bold hand, and under- 
scored to give emphasis, I suppose. I give you the 
document just as he wrote it, underscorings and all : 

" The Sin of the American nation, sir, is a holiday. 
The unpardonable folly is a laugh. Sport is unworthy 
a man born on American soil. Recreation is an ex- 
ploded idea, sir, which has come down to us from a 
former generation, and if there is anything which an 
American looks upon with utter contempt, it is a former' 
generation. There is no retrospect or prospect between 
the Atlantic and the Pacific. It is now and always a 
simple sped. Every man has a likeness of Mammon 
set up on his mantel, and to spare one day from the 
worship of that small god, is to expose himself to the 
danger of not being an old man at thirty, and comfort- 
ably into his grave before fifty. Some unfortunate 
individuals manage to get beyond fifty, but they are like 
old parchments, faded, yellow, and Avrinkled, with all 
the characters upon them effaced. American babies 
are begotten of fret o?i one side, and hnrry on the other, 
and these two forces are forever propelling them toward 
a six-by-two patch of ground with a stone at each end, 
one of which is Ananias and the other Sapphira. Amer- 
ican babies are never children, sir. They make one 



234 Ameidcan Life. 

step from bibs to breeches, and from pinafores to pan- 
ters. An American man of fourteen has squeezed the 
orange of life dry, and an American woman of twelve 
is ready to receive proposals of marriage, and sink her 
identity in kettles and pans. There is no law against 
it, sir. Nature has kindly preordained that there shall 
be no bar in the intimate relations of humanity and 
asininity. If a man wants to go through life like a 
locomotive, I suppose there is nothing to prevent it, but 
I don't want him to ask me to ride on his train. I 
know the rails are laid on every kindly feeling and ele- 
gant grace, and that the smallest flower can't grow 
between them. I know that there are all sorts of ob- 
structions on the track, bankruptcies, suicides, diseases, 
etc., which will prevent him from getting into the three 
score and ten station which God Almighty intended for 
him. People come into the world in a great hurry, and 
immediately commence their preparations to get out of 
it, They pile up a heap of treasures, and by the time 
they get it piled up, under the sod they go, where there 
is not room for a five cent shin-plaster. 

"What made me think of all these things, sir, was 
the official announcement of the city authorities that 
when the grandest achievement of this or any other age 
is celebrated next week, business will be suspended for 
one hour .f^ Actually for one hour, sir. Sixty min- 
utes, sir! ! And the wretched man who doesn't re- 
commence his work and put on steam exactly when the 
hand reaches the sixty-first minute^ is unworthy the ines- 
timable privileges of an American citizen, sir. If I had 

*The completion of the Pacific Railroad. 



Traveling Too Fast. 235 

been the Common Council of the city of Chicago, I 
would have passed a law that the merchant who did not 
hang out the banners on the outer wall from sunrise to 
sunset, who did not double the wages of his clerks for 
that day, and order them to celebrate, who did not eat 
double his usual amount, who did not execute ?c can-can 
on the top of a flour barrel, who did not make Mrs. 
Merchant eternally his joyful debtor, by the item of a 
new hat, and allow the little Merchants to ruin at least 
one suit of clothes in a mud pie bakery, and who did 
not retire to bed at night feeling that he was all right at 
heart, however he might be in his head, should be lia- 
ble to fine and imprisonment. Business will be suspend- 
ed/or one hour ! Bah ! 

" I tell you, sir, when Gabriel blows his horn, and 
summons us to square up our accounts, it will be ex- 
tremely doubtful whether Chicago will suspend business' 
more than one hour to accomodate him; and, as I am 
positive that it will take over an hour to settle up 
the accounts of this city, it seems to me there is going 
to be some confusion. It may be possible that Chicago 
will not be recognized at all on that occasion. If she 
is, I hope some arrangements may be made by which 
she can spare a day or two for Gabriel's business. 

" I tell you, sir, we travel too fast. We don't take 
enough time for recreation. If we would only halt 
occasionally in this everlasting chase after the Almighty 
Dollar, there would be less occasion for hospitals, 
insane asylums, and penitentiaries. There would be 
fewer suicides, and general smash-ups and break-downs. 
There is no good reason why a man shouldn't be just 
as fresh at forty as at twenty, but, as we go now, there 



236 Our Fast Life. 

isn't one man in a thousand who is fit for anything but 
a calculating machine at forty. Physically, he isn't 
worth a pinch of snuff. Mentally and morally, he is 
dried up ; and the women, sir, are just as bad as the 
men. It pains me, sir, to see our women fade so quickly. 
This fast pace is killing to them. Brought up in hot- 
houses, and forced beyond nature in their growth, they 
mature when they should be in bud, and wither when 
they should be in maturity, and are not of much further 
use, except for running sewing-circles, and drinking 
weak tea. It pains me, sir, to see the young girls on 
our streets, with that callous sort of countenance, and 
knowing expression, which show that they have got out 
of illusion into reality, and to see so many pale, care- 
worn, bent and faded women, out of whom all buoyant 
life has departed long since, and who can no more keep 
time than a watch with a broken spring. 

"In the mean time, business will he suspended for 
one hour. Bah ! Boy's play sir ; all boy's play ! ! 

" These are my opinions, sir, and it is quite immate- 
rial to me who knows them. And, sir, if your new 
desk will give them any extra weight, I shall be glad of 
it. I do not know that Mrs. Blobbs will agree with all 
that I have written to you, but that also is quite imma- 
terial. She is a remarkable woman sir, and p7'incipally 
remarkable for not thinkijig as I do. 

"Allow me to subscribe myself, sir. 

" Your very obedient servant, 

"John Blobbs." 

May 8, 18 ;:». 



TYPES. 




T the breakfast table this morning, time hung 
rather heavily on our hands, for the breakfast 
was not altogether a success. Old Blobbs was 
a little sulky, as Mrs. Blobbs had not rested well during 
the night. When Mrs. Blobbs does not rest well, she 
either gets up and wanders about the house, in an aimless 
sort of way, or else she talks to Old Blobbs, which is 
just the last thing in the world Old Blobbs wants her 
to do, when he is trying to sleep. Aurelia's baby was 
troublesome also, and was at last sent away in disgrace, 
when it had emptied a brimming cup of milk into Mrs. 
Blobbs' lap, and down the folds of the black silk. 
Mignon was in a pet about something or other, and was 
moodily tearing a geranium leaf to pieces, which she 
had pulled out of the breakfast bouquet. Celeste was 
in a towering rage with Fitz-Herbert, and shot light- 
nings out of her pretty eyes at him, because he had 
spoken slightingly of her coiffure. F. H., however, 
was as impervious to lightning as a glass non-conduc- 
tor, and in a chaotic sort of way caressed the promise 
of a side whisker just beginning to dawn on his cheek. 
I was, as usual, serene and philsophical ; and to 
dispel these little spring clouds which every moment 



238 The Types. 

threatenened to rain torrents upon the breakfast table, 
told them I had something to say. 

The announcement was magical, and had the same 
effect upon the company, that oil has when poured upon 
the troubled waters, or the show window of a millinery 
store on opening day upon the ruffled breast of lovely 
woman. 

And what I said was this : 

I think there is a direct line of ascent from the atom, 
the grain of sand upon the sea shore, for instance, up 
to God, and that the great principle of life, which em- 
anates from God, finds its way down to the atom, 
although we cannot perceive it with our finite sight. 

Let us commence, if you please, with the dust, which 
is not to be despised, my dears, because you are made 
out of it, the sand, the drops of water, or any other of 
the very lowest forms of creation. We pass up from 
these elements, and find them crystalized into minerals, 
and wrought into flowers, and obtain our first ideas of 
beauty. Looking up through the grades of flowers, we 
happen upon the sensitive plants, which shrink from 
you, and shiver when you point your finger at them 
like guilty souls, and the winged orchids, which you 
must touch to convince yourself they are not butterflies ; 
and in these you begin to get foreshadowings of life. 
From this point you find organisms which may be veg- 
etable, or may be animal. Our skill is insufficient to 
decide which they are. Presently you reach the sponges 
and the corals, in which animal life is very apparent ; 
and if you will do yourself the pleasure to look into 
that glass of water with a microscope, my dear Celeste, 
you will be thoroughly convinced of life, and also that 



From Atom to Man. 239 

you are daily drinking millions of very unpleasant look- 
ing animals. A step higher up, you reach the insects 
and the ephemera, who live their little day of breezy 
life in the sunshine, and in their buzzing you find music 
commences. All these little fellows, with wings and 
feelers, play very pretty tunes, if your ear is only good 
enough to catch them, when they praise God by beating 
their gauzy wings together. As you pass from the 
insects to the birds, life is more pronounced, and the 
music of which I have spoken develops in construction 
and increases in beauty. Now, we are reaching the 
grade of animals, where intelligence commences ; and 
as we come up to the dog, ox, horse or elephant, affec- 
tion is added to intelligence. The animals begin to 
assume the qualities of man, and before we are aware 
of it, some of the animals are walking on two legs 
instead of four, and assuming the form and features of ■ 
men, as, for instance, the monkeys, the apes, and the 
orang-utans. You pass from the monkey to the Digger 
Indian or Hottentot, and with the single unimportant 
exception of length of tail, it is well nigh impossible to 
tell them apart. Man is a short-tailed monkey, or, vice 
versa, monkey is a long-tailed man. Even in the high- 
est order of man, it is sometimes difficult to tell a man 
from a monkey. Turn a child out into the woods, and 
let it grow up for thirty or forty years, subsisting upon 
roots, herbs and nuts, like an animal, and what does it 
become at last but a hairy, chattering ape, climbing 
trees, burrowing in the ground, and living like an ani- 
mal ? Thus we rise through various grades of men, 
each new type more perfect than the other, but still 
possessing some characteristic of the animal, until we 



240 Man. 

reach woman, who is a step higher ; then up through 
the various types of women, until we reach the angels ; 
through the various types of angels until we reach the 
archangels, and then through the shining hierarcliy of 
Heaven, until we stop at God, the centre of all life and 
the sun of all perfection, beyond Whom is nullity. 

Thus do I believe that man is linked with all animal 
and vegetable forms below him, and that in each change 
the higher type takes something from the lower and 
preserves some characteristics of it, and that man loves 
God best when he loves all the types below him — the 
beast, the bird, the insect, the flower, and even the 
atom. The line from God to the atom, and from the 
atom to God, seems to me clear and uninterrupted ; 
and thus the whole of this great universe is bound to- 
gether by clear, though sometimes unseen relations, and 
radiates from God, its centre. And who knows but 
that in other planets there are intelligences superior to 
us, forming more links in this grand chain ? When 
man dies, he goes back to the dust whence he sprang. 
He mingles with the brook ; he blossoms in the flowers 
of the field ; he is crystalized into the mineral ; and 
thus part after part is absorbed, until only the original 
atom is left, which is the foundation upon which God 
has built up all this marvelous superstructure. Purified 
of all the bad qualities of animal and vegetable, and 
other material organisms, the soul, or what the philoso- 
phers call the Ego, only is left, and is only fitted to be 
in the presence of the Originator of this complex mech- 
anism. 

Exactly where the soul comes in, in tracing the 
changes from type to type, I confess, is a difticult mat- 



The Soul. 241 

ter to solve. The physical peculiarities are easily 
defined, but the spiritual developments are very subtle. 
I am free to confess to you that I don't believe man has 
a monopoly of all the soul there is in the vi'orld. I am 
prepared to admit that some men don't have souls at all, 
but only instincts. The common saying, "This man 
hasn't the soul of a louse," I think may be literally 
true. Some animals, I solemnly believe, have larger, 
better and truer souls than some men. All the learned 
arguments in the world would never convince me that 
the faithful horse, who is diligent in business, who 
understands what is said to him, and who stands there 
weeping big tears out of his eyes, and uttering a mourn- 
ful cry under the lash of the brute who is driving him, 
has not a soul, and more than that, a better and bigger 
soul than his driver. The mental acumen of all the 
schools would never convince me that the faithful dog ' 
who loses his master, searches for him day and night, 
only to find his grave, and, lying upon that grave, 
refuses food and drink, and, moaning piteously, dies 
upon his master's sleeping place, has not a soul. Did 
you ever look directly into the eyes of the ox, and not 
see the soul of the animal looking out at you in those 
soft and expressive orbs ? To my mind, blind old Ho- 
mer never said a finer thing than when he called the 
mother of the gods, " Ox-eyed Juno," although I think 
it was an injustice to the animal, because Juno was a 
scallawag, and deserved just such an old rake of a hus- 
band as t'le Cloud-Bearer. 

In these various types we do not always find perfec- 
tion. There are breaks in the ascent. I will illustrate 
this to you. Among the insects, there are fleas, mosqui- 

17 



242 Breaks. 

tos, cockroaches, and other species, which have not ad- 
vanced a particle in decency or intelligence above the 
hideous horned animalisms in the drop of water. 
Among the birds, there are some types of no more con- 
sequence than the insects. In the higher grades of the 
animals, there are the same unfortunate breaks. In the 
dog family, for instance, the yellow dog is really far 
below the plane on which he stands. He belongs to 
the same category as the skunk. He is of no earthly 
use to the types above or below him. The only thing 
he can do is to bark ; and as he barks at everything, 
from the moon to a mud-puddle, even his barking has 
no significance. When you get up to men, there is no 
exception to the rule. Some men have not fully 
changed from one type to another, but have the char- 
acteristics of the lower type in a crude form, like polly- 
wogs and water-newts. 

Now, you see, assuming my doctrine to be correct, 
you can explain a great many peculiarities of men, and 
the animal characteristics they carry about with them. 
It explains why some men look like animals; why some 
men act like a dog ; why some are slow as a snail ; why 
some are secretive as a clam ; why some absorb all you 
have got, like a sponge ; why some are as dirty as a 
hog ; why some are as sly as a fox ; why some are as scaly 
as a fish ; and so on ad infi7iitum. You can find the 
features of almost every animal in the human face — the 
ass and the monkey being specially prominent. The 
number of men, who, in the change of types, have pre- 
served the family semblance to these animals is some- 
what remarkable. In fact, the ass was a very hard ani- 
mal to get by in the ascent. Almost every man now 



Women. 243 

and then makes an ass of himself, and returns to the 
lower type — the only shade of difference being in the 
length of the ear. Were it not that a superior power 
continually holds him in check, man would gravitate 
downward, as his whole tendency is to retrograde to 
these lower types. Some men, who are not obstructed 
by this superior power, manage to get back to the brute 
and stay there. He must have certain conventional 
surroundings, also, in addition to this superior power, 
which is that of education, to keep his elevated position. 

I think that the women mainly come from the flowers 
and the birds. You will find the analogies of nearly all 
Avomen in the vegetable kingdom. Some women, ten- 
der, delicate, fragile, and spiritual, have all the attri- 
butes of the violet, and though they may blossom in 
some out of the way corner, they make everything 
around them joyous with their beauty and fragrance. ' 
Then there are others who flaunt their heads Avith a 
pretty disdain, and dazzle you Avith the beauty of their 
faces, but the moment you touch them, they fall to 
pieces like the seeds of the dandelion. They won't 
bear handling. Then there are Avomen Avith strong na- 
tures, whose bodies are in harness, and souls in curb, who 
resemble the tough azalea, with a stalk like iron, and 
flowers we never care to gather, OAving to their glutinous 
consistency. There are other Avomen whom you can't 
take hold of at all. They repel you from every side 
like a porcupine. They resemble the fruit of the Du- 
rion tree, Avhich is excellent eating provided you have 
courage enough to get through its hard spikes. 

I Avas reading the other day that the birds of Paradise, 
Avhen they are in their most gorgeous plumage, select 



244 ^ Refrain. 

some tree, or other eligible spot, go through with a reg- 
ular dance for the edification of the other birds, and, 
during the dance, display their lustrous feathers by 
spreading them out as much as possible, and chatter 
together, in an insanely garrulous manner. 

I was about to make an application of this custom to 
women, when I caught the eye of Mrs. Blobbs looking 
at me in a significant manner. I confess to you I am 
a little afraid of that majestic woman when she puts on 
her Avar-]jaint, and I immediately refrained, and we 
arose from the table. 

May 15, 1869. 




WOMAN IN CHURCH. 




N refusing to admit the women into the Young 
Men's Christian Association, Brother Moody 
has thrown aside the strongest element in reli- 
gious matters which he could have used. Women are 
peculiarly receptive. Their nature is intensely emotion- 
al. They see instinctively where the man has to grope 
and reason his way up. A thousand sympathetic ten- 
drils stretch out from their hearts, like the arms of the 
cuttle fish, which seize upon, wind around and draw to 
the centre, in strong affinity, if not assimilation, every 
object to which they are attracted. If it be good, it 
transforms them to angels; if evil, to fiends. No man 
can be such a saint as a woman ; no man such a sinner. 
It is this intense emotion and natural instinct which ad- 
mirably qualify them for religious purposes. And it 
proves, moreover, why, without them, there isn't a 
church in this city that could live six months. The 
church membership as every one knows is largely fem- 
inine. The influence which the Church exerts is femin- 
ine. The sympathy which the minister gets is feminine. 
His smoking-cap, dressing-robe, slippers, book-marks, 
donation-parties and other pleasant perquisites are fem- 
inine. And all the grumbling, fault-finding, hard work 



246 The Woman. 

and hard knocks which the minister has to encounter, 
are purely mascuHne. The man, naturally lacking in 
reverence as well as religion, is inclined to regard the 
minister from a commercial point of view, and to treat 
him as an equal, while the woman looks up with admir- 
ing reverence. 

Any woman who has been to church, unless her near- 
est neighbor has just come out in a new hat, can tell 
you what text the minister preached from, and give 
you a syllabus of his discourse. There isn't one man 
in ten who can do that. The man carries his business 
into church with him. The woman, unless there is an 
harassing doubt concerning the integrity of the beans, 
which might have been placed in the oven a little too 
soon, leaves her business at home. She can shed her 
cares as an umbrella sheds rain. The man, be he a den- 
tist, allows dental reflections to insinuate themselves 
among the threads of the discourse, and wonders how 
he can get sister this or that into his chair of torture, 
and mentally determines to try it on at the next sewing- 
circle. The doctor is rather quietly rejoiced to see a 
large number of sisters absent, because this argues sick- 
ness. Women don't stay away from church unless they 
are sick, or some one is coming to dinner. The lawyer 
wonders if a certain statement the minister has made, 
has any legal bearing, and this leads him to think of 
the case of Boggs vs. Noggs, which is pending in the 
courts. The merchant who has just seen two of his 
clerks driving down the avenue at a very rapid rate, 
with cigars in their mouths, and in a style which seems 
to indicate they are not going to a Sunday School, won- 
ders where they are going, where they got their nion- 



The Man. 247 

ey to go with, and what they are going to do when 
they get there. And so on with each class. It is all 
very well to talk of the quiet of the Sabbath, and the 
propriety of forgetting the things of this world. It is a 
pretty theory, but men don't observe it. A man, in 
course of time, gets his nature so soaked and saturated 
with the cares, foibles, and follies of this world, that 
the moment it is squeezed in the slightest degree, some 
of these things will ooze out. So he thinks of the 
things of this world, and the words of the minister 
hum through his thoughts as the buzz of the bees comes 
to your ears in a hot summer day, when you are lying 
in the shade of the trees ; and, as the architect was in 
league with the devil when he built the church, the ven- 
tilation is slightly bad. All these things militate against 
watchfulness, and the man, having confidence that the 
minister is on the right doctrinal track, quietly goes tO' 
sleep, and makes no sign thereafter, except to brush a 
fly from his nose, or nod vigorous assents to the par- 
son's heads with his own. 

I have noticed that women do not sleep in church. 
When Mrs. Blobbs accompanies old Blobbs to church, 
that good woman's attention is sadly distracted from 
the sermon, by the constant necessity of punching Old 
Blobbs in the ribs to keep him from snoring, whereat 
Old Blobbs opens both eyes wide open, fixes them upon 
the minister, as if he had never slept a wink in his life, 
gives his individual and serious attention to the sermon 
for the space of one minute, gradually closes one eye, 
as if winking at somebody, then quietly shuts the other, 
as if he did not want to disturb any one, and in anoth- 
er moment his nose sounds the whistle that he has 



248 Female Engineering. 

arrived at the station of Morpheus, which necessitates 
another punch from Mrs. Blobbs. Thus Old Blobbs is 
kept between a snore and a swear the whole blessed 
morning, and goes home to his dinner without a single 
coherent idea about the sermon, while Mrs. Blobbs can 
go from firstly to tenthly, and throw in significant 
remarks about the young fellow who was fool enough to 
go to sleep on a window sill, while Paul was preaching, 
resulting in a broken neck, or something of that sort, 
you know. 

Woman gives herself up without a question or a 
doubt to the inspiration of the hour, with the whole 
intensity of her emotional nature, very much as I think 
I should give myself up to the beats and pulsations of 
the organ-heart of some old cathedral, while the "dim, 
religious light ' ' streamed in through the stained win- 
dows, and saints and martyrs looked down upon me 
from their niches. 

And then a man in a sewing circle, or church socia- 
ble, or maternal meeting, or aid society meeting, or 
anything else of that harmless sort, is as much out of 
place, and as essentially useless as a coal-heaver would 
be at a classical concert. And yet these are great aids. 
They must be in the hands of the women. The major 
part of the machinery of the church must be engin- 
eered by the women. For all these reasons do I think 
that Brother Moody was unwise to refuse admission to 
the women. 

May 22, 18G9. 




THE MOUNTAINS. 




jID you ever go East over the Pennsylvania 
Central Railroad? If not, do it at your first 
opportunity, and get a glimpse at the mount- 
ain scenery. It will reconcile you to life. The mem- 
ory of those grand, imposing forms, towering into the 
heavens, clothed with their mighty greenery, girdled 
with the mists and crowned with the eternal sunshine, 
will stand you in good stead when life j^resses with its' 
cares and anxieties, and the daily routine frets and 
worries, and friendship grows forgetful, and the grass- 
hopper begins to be a burden. 

I remember that the first thought which flashed upon 
me, as I stood upon the rear of the train, crawling up 
the hills in sinuous track, like some great serpent, was 
not so much the physical aspects as the perfect repose 
which seemed to brood among them. There was no 
life apparent — no motion visible. There was a river, 
which now and then glistened in the sunlight, but it 
was far down in the valleys, and it seemed from our 
height only a silver thread, tying the mountains to- 
gether in a great emerald cluster. You saw the tops of 
the trees overlaying each other, and covering the moun- 
tains like the scales of a fish. But there was no motion 



250 Their Repose. 

in them. They were solid, massive and gigantic as pet- 
rified Titans. I do not believe the birds sing on those 
mountain sides ; I do not believe the fairies gambol 
there in the moonlight, nor even that the insects play 
their part in the breezy morning symphonies under 
those still trees. It seems to me that none but a Deity 
should come down to those mountain tops, and thrice 
happy the man who can commune with him in that sol- 
itude. It seems to me that there would be no need of 
the written word there. The genius of solitude broods 
there — on the jutting peaks, in the great trees, in the 
solemn shadows, in the dark, silent pools and tarns, in 
the dank, trailing robes of the mist, and in the ineffa- 
ble golden glory of the sunshine. I can now see how 
Irma found repose on " the Heights ; " how she could 
reach from the Alpine summits up toward Heaven, and 
feel the hand of the Great Father reaching down to her-; 
how, among the toils, and the sorrows, and the sins of 
the little world down in the valleys, the sweet repose of 
the mountains purified her ; and how she struggled out 
of vice into virtue, out of impurity into perfect purity. 
I can see how all great souls, tormented with the follies 
and littleness of the world, with the ungratefulness and 
faithlessness of those they have trusted, bound down 
under the weight of their earthly burdens, their wings 
clipped, and their hands fettered, have longed for the 
mountain tops, where they might forever forget the 
world, and be alone with nature and the Deity. I can 
see how God came down to Moses on the mountain ; 
how the marvelous transfiguration shone from the 
mountain \ how Goethe sang, 

" On every height there lies repose." 



The Mountain Spirit. 251 

Another thought struck me, and that was the magnifi- 
cent littleness of humanity, when it is brought into the 
presence of these mighty manifestations of Nature. 
What a poor little speck you are upon the great canvas ! 
How small you look with your aches and pains, your 
fusses and foibles, your fashions and furbelows, your 
vanities and ambitions, iu this eternal presence ! How 
evanescent is fame ; how transient is wealth ; how fee- 
ble is love ; how fickle is friendship ; how small is this 
hand-breadth of life ; how utterly insignificant all ac- 
complishment of human industry ; how utterly pinch- 
beck all displays of human grandeur, compared with 
this awful majesty of Nature ! How few men have 
caught the mountain spirit and left it in their works ! 
Blot out Shakspeare and Milton and Dante, Moses and 
Paul and Martin Luther, Raphael and Michael An- 
gelo, Rembrandt, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Bach, ' 
and who is left to correspond with the height and depth, 
the majesty and solitude of the mountains ? Not that 
genius was confined to them, but the other great names 
have been celebrated in the valleys, by the brooks, and 
among the flowers. They made the earth lovelier and 
brighter for their presence, but they did not reach the 
heights of human nature, where dwells everlasting 
repose. They saw the star-shadows on the water, but 
these others soared to them in the heavens. They 
sowed the world with richest flowers of thought. To 
these others, it was given to pluck the asphodels and 
amaranths growing by eternal v/aters. They build- 
ed in the trees of the valleys, and their songs were 
sweet. These others sought the regions above the 
storms with their eagle-flights, and when their voices 



252 Their Physical Aspects. 

come to us from their calm heights, they are laden with 
an awful majesty and beauty, as the west is now laden 
with the thunder-clouds, and pregnant with sweeping 
power, as those clouds are now pregnant with the 
lightnings. 

The physical aspects of these mountains are marvel- 
ously beautiful. What a compact wall the tree-tops 
make ! They seem impervious even to the sharpest 
lightning. Their forms give you every diversity of sur- 
face. Their outlines are never harsh or rugged, but 
always undulating and graceful. As the train sweeps 
along, now you get only the bold, precipitous wall of 
one mountain side. In a minute you get a view of an- 
other face. Now a chain of mountains group them- 
selves together in a superb tableau. Now they form the 
gigantic setting of a peaceful green valley with a river 
laughing in its face, with here and there the dot of a 
house, and the column of thin, blue smoke no bigger 
than that which curls up from your cigar. The next 
instant the pretty vision is swept out of sight. You are 
thundering along on the edge of a curve right in the 
clutches of these Titans. The motion of the train 
impresses you with the idea that they are moving down 
upon it with resistless might, and that they will crush it 
like an egg-shell. You are surrounded with dense 
shadows. The mountains are bowing down their shaggy 
heads. You almost feel their weight pressing down 
upon you, and their breath, full of the bracing essence 
of life, in your face. It seems almost profanation to 
speak with such a presence near you, and you can only 
think thoughts too deep for the fashion of words. But 
anon, the train sj^eeds through the sulphurous black- 



The Clouds. 253 

ness of a tunnel, and you emerge into the sunlight, 
rolling in great waves of gold up the mountain sides, 
and giving you weird effects of light and shade, and 
constantly changing emerald tints that would mock the 
finest frenzy of the artist. I believe the clouds love to 
deck the mountains, as the sea loves to deck the shore 
with shells and sea-flowers. A sunrise or sunset in those 
mountains when the heavens are full of clouds, shows 
what d\'es nature can use, and what forms she can 
mould, as you will see them nowhere else. 

July 3, 180!». 




THE JUBILEE. 




Boston, June 15, 1869. 
HE day of Jubilee has come. 

Boston has been in a flutter of agitation and ex- 
citement to-day ; for, truth to say, Boston her- 
self has not been over sanguine as to the success of the 
Jubilee. It is probable that not a person in the city has 
regarded the experiment in the light of an unquestioned 
success, except Mr. Gilmore, in whose fertile brain the Ju- 
bilee was conceived, and by whom it has been pushed 
forward, in the face of obstacles, to a successful birth; 
When Mr. Gilmore offered the Jubilee to New York, 
the Manhattanites laughed at him, and gently insinua- 
ted that he had gone clean daft, whereupon Mr. Gil- 
more took his embryonic Jubilee to Boston, and, un- 
daunted by obstacles, and unannoyed by the gibes and 
jeers of the faithless, he worked in season and out of 
season, put this wheel and that wheel together, got this 
man and that man interested in it, melted even the 
adamantine hearts of the musicians themselves, and at 
last got his project so far advanced that it became a 
matter of city pride to put the municipal shoulder to 
the wheel and help Gilmore out with his mammoth un- 
dertaking. And Boston did help him right royally. 
Once provided with the ducats and with the collaterals, 
which guaranteed him financial safety, the foundations 



W/iai Wm He Do With Them? 255 

of the enterprise were laid, and the superstructure grew 
rapidly. Singers and instruments, big singers and little 
singers, big fiddles and little fiddles, poured in as fast 
and as thick as the dogs and cats in Beard's picture. I 
myself saw, riding on a boat of Commodore Fisk's, from 
New York to Fall River, en route to the Jubilee, sixty 
double basses ranged along on the deck, like coffins 
swathed in green bags, and to-day I saw them again 
manipulated in the vast orchestra, to show that I do not 
lie. 

The material was, at last, all in his hands, and the 
material was composed of one thousand instruments — a 
big organ, ten thousand singers, a Coliseum, and sun- 
dry properties by way of appendices, such as a battery 
of artillery, church bells, and anvils. And the question 
immediately arose : 

What will he do with them? 

This is the question which has agitated Boston to-day, 
from the harbor to the Back Bay, and from Bunker Hill 
to Jamaica Plain. When Boston woke up this morning, 
notwithstanding her doubts, she dressed herself in festal 
garments of streamers, flags and bunting, to do honor 
to tlie occasion, and to properly impress the strangers 
within her borders with the fact that she was out for a 
holiday, and was bound to enjoy herself. And there 
were strangers enough within her borders. Every other 
man you met upon the narrow sidewalks was a carpet- 
bagger, and every other woman had a roll of music in 
her hands. Band musicians in all sorts of uniforms, 
carrying all sorts of odd-looking boxes, met you and 
jostled you at every turn, for it is impossible for two 
people to pass each other upon a Boston sidewalk, es- 



256 The Chorus. 

pecially if one has a box or a carpet-bag in his hands. 
Every train and every boat which has arrived to-day 
was loaded down with musical freight, and all the 
morning they filed down Boylston street to the Colise- 
um, in water-proof cloaks with their rolls of music. 
The hotels are filled with them. The boarding houses 
are full, both in the city and in the suburbs, and even 
some of the public halls have been provided with cots, 
to accommodate the melodious strangers, who have 
come here to lift up their voices in the grand chorus. 

And it is a grand chorus. In 1836, Mendelssohn, the 
great master, led 536 performers, and ten years later 
led his own "Elijah," with achorus of 700 before him. 
In 1862 a chorus of 4,000 voices sang together at the 
Crystal Palace in London ; and last year Costa led 
4,500 in the same building. It was considered a great 
event — an episode in the history of music. Julien, 
that eccentric little conductor, conceived the idea of 
increasing upon this number, but the very magnitude of 
his operations turned his brain, and he died in a mad- 
house — his disordered mind, even in his dying moments, 
being occupied with an imaginary orchestra. It has been 
left for Mr. Gilmore to eclipse them all. What was 
some time a problem is now a fixed fact ; and the 
annals of music can show no grander triumph than that 
which this daring, hard working man has achieved this 
day. When Mr. Gilmore's baton closed the final chord 
of the massive Martin Luther choral, he had done 
something which was worth living for. He had a right 
to be proud of his work. 

The Coliseum in which the Jubilee is given, is upon 
the made lands of the Back Bay. Upon its site young 



The Coliseum. 257 

Boston has fished in the summer, and skated in the 
winter. When Boston had filled out to the water's 
edge, it did what Canute could not do. It commenced 
to drive back the sea, and each step that the sea receded 
was filled up and built upon. Aristocracy turned its 
eyes thitherward, and went there to build its free-stone 
fronts, and made it the handsomest part of the city. 
The Coliseum is on the newest of this land, where it 
has not yet been divided off into lots. Its immediate 
surroundings, therefore, are not very attractive. The 
exterior of the building is not remarkably beautiful, and 
the fine Natural History rooms, and other elegant build- 
ings near by, provoke architectural comparisons not 
particularly favorable to it. It has a cheerful, pleasant 
appearance, however, and derives a certain sort of, 
brilliancy from the little flags of divers colors which 
flutter in the breeze from every salient point. The 
hucksters and venders of notions, who have improved 
the occasion to turn an honest or dishonest penny, as 
the case may be, have not improved the ensemble with 
their scores of board shanties and canvas tents, which 
have been dumped down upon the crude ground in 
every direction. Their name is almost literally legion. 
There are venders of ice creams, which are mushy and 
sloppy ; of soda water with gaudily colored syrups ; of 
innocent vegetable beer, for the hard hand of the law 
forbids the sale of anything stronger; of domestic 
cigars compounded of innocuous herbs; of oranges, and 
pop corn, and bananas, and photographs, and fans. At 
this shanty you may get revolving heels placed upon 
your boots, and at that one you can get key tags 
stamped. Here the wild men of Borneo are delighting 

18 



258 TJie Coliseum. 

a crowd, and there you may see a two-headed monkey 
cheap. Blind men are selling ballads. Small girls are 
vending hot roasted peanuts. Here is a shooting gal- 
lery, and there a fandango. The old buxom Irish 
women of the common, who have been accustomed to 
drowse away their days under the elms, have suddenly 
become imbued with the enterprise of the hour, and are 
driving sharp bargains on the Back Bay in oranges and 
candy, and puff away at their dhudeens with an air of 
self congratulation. 

Notwithstanding these drawbacks, however, the Col- 
iseum admirably answers the purposes for which it was 
built. It is large enough to accommodate all who will 
go. Its ventilation is excellent ; its acoustic properties 
good, and its conveniences perfect as they can be. The 
interior is beautifully decorated with bunting, streamers, 
flags, and various paintings and devices. The sub- 
rooms, especially the reception room, are exquisitely 
adapted to the purposes for which they were designed. 
The latter room, this morning, presented a perfect wil- 
derness of flowers, and its walls were hung with elegant 
paintings. Its seating capacity is, I should judge, 
between thirty and forty thousand, exclusive of the 
chorus and orchestra. The roughness and blank appear- 
ance of unfinished wood-work, has been concealed by 
drapery and bunting very gracefully arranged, and from 
one end of the Coliseum to the other, the eye is attract- 
ed by the brightest of colors. 

It is now my task to describe to you the opening con- 
cert, and I freely confess my inability to do so. As I 
write you, the deep diapason of that mighty organ, the 
surging waves of harmony from the largest orchestra and 



The Scene. 259 

the marvelous sublimity of the largest chorus the world 
has ever known, are still in my ears, and it seems to me 
that I can find no words to describe it. I can feel it, 
but I cannot make you feel it with poor words. It 
almost seems a profanation to attempt it. To see that 
multitude alone is electrifying. It makes your blood 
stir within you, to look upon that great sea of faces 
stretching off into the distance, and to know that one 
man holds them in his hand, and with his little baton 
guides and sways them at his will. One man in that 
vast throng is only as one drop in the sea — one grain of 
sand upon the shore. His voice is indistinguishable, 
but the aggregate, you feel within you, will be as the 
on-coming of the mighty storm. 

Picture to yourself the scene. Immediately before 
you is the orchestra, one thousand strong, occupying 
the level platform. The brasses are at the rear, as you 
may easily perceive, by a strip as of gold, which runs 
through the sombre black, and right between them is a 
huge bass drum, looming up like the wheel of a steam- 
boat. From this level platform, on three sides, rises an 
amphitheatre, which holds the great chorus, ten thou- 
sand strong. The sopranos are on the left, the altos on 
the right, and the tenors and bassos in the centre, and 
up from their midst rise the open pipes of the great 
organ, the player of which sits facing the conductor, 
at some distance from the organ, communicating with 
him by means of speaking tubes. Sub-conductors are 
also located near each of the choral parts, who convey 
the instructions of the main conductors. Just at the 
right of the conductor there is an electrical battery 
which communicates with a section of artillery at a dis- 



26o 



The Orchestras. 



tance. The instrumental performers are arranged in 
the orchestra. The first, the chorus orchestra, is made 
up as follows : 

Wind. 

Flutes 8 

Clarionets .... 8 

Oboes 8 

Bassoons 8 

Horns 12 

Trumpets .... 8 
Trombones .... 9 

Tubas 3 

Drums 10 



Stringed. 




First Violins . . 


• 115 


Second Violins . . 


. 100 


Violoncellos . 


. 6s 


Violas .... 


. 6s 


Double Basses 


• 85 




430 




74 



Total, 



504 



74 
The grand orchestra is composed of the following 
instruments, in addition to those specified above : 



Piccolos and Flutes 
Yjb Clarionetts 
Y>b Clarionetts 
E(^ Cornets 
^b Cornets 
Y.b Alto Horns 
B(^ Tenor Horns 
Tenor Trombones 
Bass Trombones 
B^ Baritones . 
Yjb Basso Tubas 
Small Drums . 
Bass Drums 
Cymbals 
Triangles . 



Chorus Orchestra . 
Total 



25 

20 

50 
50 

75 
75 
25 
50 
25 
25 
75 
50 
25 
10 
10 



590 
504 

1094 



The Luther Choral. 261 

The players and singers are all in their places. The 
organ sounds a few chords, and the players tune their 
instruments therefrom. Ole Bull comes in and takes 
his seat at the head of the first violinists, amid applause 
from all parts of the house, and the veteran Norwegian 
cavalier sits there, with his bow upon his violin, as 
straight and as lordly as one of his own pines, watching 
the conductor with flashing eyes. It is Mr. Gilmore 
who has just followed him, and as he takes the stand, 
enthusiasm breaks out in every part of the vast building, 
and the applause is loud and long. When it has sub- 
sided, he raises his baton. The chorus rises, and there 
is something stirring even in the rising of such a vast 
throng. The audience is hushed, and, for an instant, 
there is perfect stillness. The baton descends, and 
chorus, orchestra and organ sound in a mighty chord 
of harmony the opening note of Martin Luther's grand 
old choral. As they sweep along through its slow and 
solemn movement as regularly as the swing of a pen- 
dulum, the organ's mighty diapason upholding the 
whole and keeping them together, it is like the voice 
of many waters. It is not a chaos of noise, as I had 
dreamed it would be ; not a mere volume of sound 
without music. The voices come to you blended to- 
gether as the sounds of nature — the songs of the birds, 
the blasts of the winds and the rushings of the torrents — 
blend. The instruments are powerful, but smooth. In 
that vast array you lose the scrape of the strings and the 
blare of the brasses. They are toned down into pure 
harmony, and through all, in all, and about all, come 
the mighty voices of the organ as the thunders come in 
the storm. The tears are in your eyes before you know 
IS* 



262 The Luther Choral. 

it. The audience before you disappears. You are 
lifted, as it were, upon the great waves of music into 
the very presence of the infinite, and the outside world, 
with all its petty cares and troubles, is forgotten. On 
the repeat, the choral is commenced pianissimo, and 
the music comes to you as if from afar over the water. 
Gradually it approaches you, and, with a superb cres- 
cendo, in which the organ carries everything along with 
it, the cadenza is reached in a burst of harmony you 
have never heard before. You may never hear it again. 
The conductor steps down from his stand amid thun- 
ders of applause. It is at last proven that the Jubilee 
will be a musical success. 

Such singing and such playing I have never heard 
before. I do not believe anything like it has ever been 
heard in the world. At first, it seems to you that the 
choruses are not in time, for, from first to last, they 
have not been with the conductor's beat, to one sitting 
at some distance. Of course, you see the beat before 
you hear the sound, as you see the wood-chopper's axe 
descend upon the distant hillside before you hear the 
blow, and thus the chorus seems to be behind, when, in 
reality, it is with the conductor. 

Julius Eichberg, who wrote the pretty little " Doctor 
of Alcantara," next takes the baton, and the grand or- 
chestra addresses itself to the unraveling of Wagner's 
Tannhauser overture. The massing of instruments in 
the opening of the overture is superb, and the main 
theme is delivered with remarkable beauty. Soon they 
are lost in the intricate modulations and chaotic dis- 
cords of this musician of the future; but when they 
begin to emerge into the chromatic violin runs, and re- 



Parepa. 263 

turn once more to something which has a resemblance 
to melody and a meaning in it, it is with a splendid 
burst of power; and one is almost compelled to ac- 
knowledge that there is method in this Bavarian mad- 
man, after all. 

Once more, the chorus rises, and Carl Zerrahn takes 
the baton — the flute-player of the old Germania orches- 
tra, and one of the most accomplished musicians living. 
He is a great favorite, both for his musical and his 
gentlemanly qualities, and he is greeted with a very 
storm of applause. The "Gloria" from Mozart's 
"Twelfth Mass" is next on the programme. He is 
a ^ very easy and graceful, and yet forcible leader, 
and, notwithstanding the intricacy of the accompani- 
ment and the difficulty of the vocal score, under the 
magical influence of his baton, the sublimity of the 
"Gloria" finds a graphic illustration. 

Gounod's "Ave Maria," so full of suggestions of 
"Faust," is the next number, and Parepa comes for- 
ward to sing it, dressed in pure white. She receives a 
perfect ovation. In the morning, at rehearsal, she had 
been very nervous. The vast orchestra and chorus be- 
fore her almost terrified her, and she was confident she 
could but make her voice heard for a short distance. 
The "Ave Maria" is not a fair test of the capabilities 
of her voice, however, as she has only an accompani- 
ment of two hundred violins to do the obligato. She 
bows to the audience, and, turning, acknowledges 
the hearty welcome which the chorus has given her. 
Every tone of her voice is audible, even in the most 
distant parts of the hall. Its absolute purity, and the 
jentire absence of woodiness in it, make it heard, and 



264 The Star-Spangled Banner. 

give you confidence that you will also hear it in the 
" Inflammatus," where she will have a severe test. 

The "Star-Spangled Banner" is the next feature. It 
has been arranged differently for this occasion, which 
may account for a slight faux pas which happened. 
The tenors and bassos take the first verse, and the 
sopranos and altos the second verse in unison, which 
gives you an excellent opportunity of hearing the vari- 
ous parts of the great chorus by themselves. It would 
be difficult to say which was the best, although I am 
inclined to give the palm to the tenors, and yet I think 
no one who heard them can ever forget the other parts. 
A serious mistake occurred in the accompaniment. 
The trumpets are badly out. Some of the other brasses 
follow, and draw off some of the violins. The chorus 
begins to waver. There is danger of a disastrous break- 
down. Gilmore, who is at the baton, is growing ner- 
vous; he fairly jumps up and down in his anxiety. And' 
still it is running away, when suddenly Wilcox opens 
all the great organ, and with a crash of sound and an 
obstinately right tempo, brings all the discordant ele- 
ments together again. The artillery peals in with its 
thunder in perfect time, and as the last measure closes, 
the whole audience rise unanimously to their feet at 
once, and the most intense excitement prevails. Thou- 
sands of handkerchiefs are waved by t'.\e ladies and 
flutter in the air like white doves. Men wave their hats 
and clap their hands, and the air is filled with bravos 
and cheers, which are kept up until the encore is given. 

Parepa has the next number, and it is her favorite 
number — the "Inflammatus" from the Stabat Mater. 
Her voice has now a test such as it has never had before; 



The Anvil Chorus. 265 

for in the last few measures she has to sing against the 
full choral accompaniment of ten thousand voices, the 
thousand instruments, and the organ. She passes 
through the ordeal bravely. In the most distant part 
of the house you can hear her voice. The sustaining 
of the upper C and the trills were superbly done ; and 
as she closed, her sustained high tones were as pure and 
as beautiful as those of a bird singing in the distance. 
It was a grand triumph for her, and the audience evi- 
dently regarded it in the same manner, for they gave 
her a very hearty and unmistakable e7icore, to which she 
replied with a repetition of the same. The absolute 
purity of her voice was never better tested than upon 
this occasion. 

Verdi should have been present to have heard his An- 
vil Chorus performed. He is pre-eminently the great 
apostle of noise, and ten thousand voices, one thousand 
instruments, one hundred anvils — pounded by two hun- 
dred stalwart firemen in perfect time — and a battery of 
artillery, adding to the din and marking the time with- 
out a break, could not but have delighted him. The 
effect was simply indescribable. The aggregate of sound 
was gigantic. The firemen had been well trained, 
without the orchestra, by Mr. Gilmore himself, and, 
although the whole affair was more or less sensational 
and noisy, the effect was very stirring, and the audience 
insisted upon an encore. Oliver Wendell Holmes' 
Hymn, set to the music of Keller's "American Hymn ;" 
the overture to "William Tell," which was deliciously 
given; the Coronation March from the "Prophet," and 
the national air, "America," completed this remark- 
able performance. 



266 Second Day. 

There were probably few among unprejudiced persons 
who did not anticipate a musical failure upon this occa- 
sion. Many considered it a piece of Boston braggadO' 
cio, and others a musical experiment, in which all the 
chances were unfavorable. The result, however, hast 
proved just the reverse. With the exception, here and \ 
there, of slight mistakes, in which some instruments got 
out of time and occasioned variations which were so 
trifling that they did not interfere with the effect, the 
whole affair was a musical success. 



June i6, 1869. 

The weather yesterday was purely Bostonian: wind 
from the southeast, drizzling rains, dull, leaden clouds 
hurrying up from the salt water, a sultry, humid atmos- 
phere, and muddiest of all muddy flag-stones. It was 
an inauspicious atmospherical commencement for the 
Jubilee, but to-day the motto of the festival is granted, 
and we have peace. The skies are bright, the air cool 
and bracing, and those little green oases in the brick 
and stone desert, the Common and Public Gardens, are 
as pleasant to the eye and as grateful to the senses as 
the gardens of Paradise. The trees are alive with 
birds, the fountains are glistening in the sunshine, and 
the cool walks are crowded with pleasure-seekers and 
curiosity-hunters. 

It is a gala day in Boston ; for, in view of the arrival 
of the President, the City Fathers have proclaimed a 
holiday, and all Boston and the rest of the universe 
which revolves around it, including Saugus Centre and 
Kewton Four Corners, have turned out to see General 



The Organ. 267 

Grant and each other, eat popcorn and bananas, hear 
the great chorus, and get all bedraggled and tired out 
by sunset. The city is dressed out gaily in the red, 
white and blue, and, true to the American character- 
istics, as much business as possible is combined with it 
in the way of advertising. The American Eagle is 
made to carry a fearful commercial weight upon his 
generous back in Boston to-day, from the squat female 
Hibernian dealer in fly-specked candies, even, to sundry 
granite-fronted, wholesale, solid men who live in the 
omnipresent free-stone houses on the Back Bay. The 
streets are literally crammed with people. Locomotion 
is a tedious affair upon these ribbons of sidewalks, and 
the surging crowd sometimes carries you, whether you 
will or no, into all sorts of alleys and by-ways and ser- 
pentine streets, which are sure to land you at some- 
body's front door. Fourth of July, the Saints' Day of 
Boston, is in danger of its multitudinous laurels, for it 
has never witnessed greater crowds than the magic 
baton of Gilmore has brought here. 

Before I tell you of this second day of the Jubilee, I 
have a few incidents of interest wherewith to prelude it. 
And first, the organ itself is a noteworthy feature here, 
for it is the back-bone of the music, which holds the 
ribs and small bones of the Jubilee, keeps them in place, 
and prevents fracture. The organ was manufactured by 
the Messrs. Hook, expressly for the occasion, in the 
short space of four weeks, and was built with the design 
in view of combining strength and volume of tone with 
the least possible space in occupancy. The instrument 
has a very novel appearance, for the reason that it 
stands without a case. Above a very slight casing of 



268 The Organ. 

chestnut and walnut, all the pipes of the "flute a Pavil- 
ion" are displayed — a stop which answers to the "Open 
Diapason." Behind these and others are the pipes of 
the " Bombarde, " a sixteen-feet reed stop, and, still 
behind these, the vast wooden pipes of the "Grand Sub 
Bass," which form a double wall across the rear of the 
organ. On each side are the pipes of the " Pedale Po- 
sanne." The grouping of the pipes is very symmetri- 
cal, and presents quite as imposing, if not so beautiful 
an appearance as an elaborate case. The width of the 
organ across the front is twenty-two feet, and the height 
thirty feet. The wind-pressure used is at least four 
times that of ordinary organs, requiring four thousand 
pounds weight upon the bellows. Notwithstanding its 
great power, the tone is by no means harsh, but very 
agreeably rich and pleasant, and combines great inten- 
sity and solidity with the most brilliant seriousness con- 
ceivable. Its marvelous power and volume were spe- 
cially manifested yesterday, when the orchestra began 
to break in the "Star-Spangled Banner." Mr. Wilcox, 
for a moment, seemed to be gathering up the resources 
of the organ in his hands, and then let it out in a man- 
ner which resembled the rushing of a storm more than 
anything else; but it had the effect to bring order out 
of chaos, and when once more he gathered back and re- 
strained its powers, the instruments were playing like a 
charm. 

Individuals count but little in this vast assemblage of 
singers and players, and yet there are notable people 
there whose superl:) solo singing and playing have been 
familiar to the public in concert rooms and opera for 
years. Look among the first violinists and you will see 



The Players. 269 

Ole Bull, prince of them all, fired with the spirit of the 
occasion. In the aggregate of sound you cannot hear 
a tone from his violin, and yet you know from his 
manner that the old Scandinavian is playing as he never 
played before. There is Carl Rosa, the petite Ham- 
burger, a boy among them in appearance, wielding his 
bow with the general enthusiasm of the occasion. 
There is Schultze, who, years ago — how many leaves 
have fallen since then — stood at the head of the first 
violinists in the old Germania Orchestra, and distracted 
the ladies with the fine tinge of his cheeks and his 
"Sounds from Home;" and Zerrahn, who stood oppo- 
site him in that same organization, playing the flute, is 
now wielding the baton for his old compatriot. There 
is Julius Eichberg, who wrote the charming "Doctor of 
Alcantara" and the "Two Cadis," a most accomplished 
musician ; and there are Grill and Mollenhauer, Besig 
and Moll, of New York. In the second violins you 
will find Carl Meisel, of the Mendelssohn Quintette; 
Eichler, of Boston; Reichardt, Ritter, Conrad and 
others, of New York. Thomas Ryan has dropped his 
clarionet and Heindl has dropped his flute, and both 
have taken violas in the grand orchestra. Wulf Fries 
and Suck and Henry Mollenhauer have their violon- 
cellos before them, and MuUer and Stein their double 
basses. Koppitz, Zohler and Carlo are blowing their 
flutes. Among the oboes you will find De Ribas, Mente 
and Taulwasser. And glorious Arbuckle sends the 
clarion blasts of his cornet shivering through the music 
as a flash of lightning cuts through a cloud. 

Among the singers also, you will find notable names. 
Among the sopranos are the matchless Parepa, Mrs. H. 



270 TJic Singers. 

M. Smith, Mrs. Sophia Mozart, Miss Gates, Miss Annie 
Granger, Miss Graziella Ridgway, Mrs. D. C. Hall, 
Miss S. W. Barton and Mrs. J. W. Weston. Among 
the altos are Adelaide Phillipps, Mrs. Drake, Miss 
Addie S. Ryan, Mrs. C. A. Barry, and Mrs. Guilmette. 
Among the tenors are the two Whitneys, L. W. Wheeler 
and James P. Draper. There are prominent singers 
also among the bassos, such names as Rudolphsen, 
Powers, McLellan, Ardavani, Perkins, Kimball, M. W. 
Whitney and Dr. Guilmette. 

The telegraph will have anticipated me concerning 
the movements of General Grant. His arrival, and the 
fact that he would be present at the Coliseum, swelled 
the crowd about that building and in the vicinity to 
enormous proportions. The streets were one swaying, 
surging mass of humanity. Vehicles were jammed to- 
gether in inextricable confusion. The horse-cars found 
it impossible to proceed, and, being piled together in 
long lines, sometimes a mile in length, added to the 
general distraction. The Hub was in a hubbub. I 
made the journey from the Coliseum to the State House, 
ordinarily a five minutes' walk, in exactly one hour by 
the Park Street Church clock, which never lies. As 
the time approached for the opening of the concert, the 
rush was fearful. At every one of the twelve entrances 
to the Coliseum, thousands of people were jammed to- 
gether, pushing and fairly trampling upon one another. 
The efforts of the police, efficient as they have been, 
were of no avail. Hundreds and hundreds of people 
who had tickets turned and went away, rather than face 
that crowd. Women became timid and shrank from it. 
There were some, however, who resolutely went in, and 



The Audience. 271 

some of them came out squeezed. Some fainted and 
were, with difficulty, extricated. Not one of them 
but had rumpled feathers, smashed paniers, dishevelled 
hair and flushed, perspiring faces, when they had fairly 
effected an entrance. For an hour at least this terrible 
crush continued. It was such a crowd as Boston has 
never seen before. It is doubtful whether any city has 
ever witnessed the like. And all this while all the 
streets, even the spacious Common, were densely packed, 
so that walking was impossible. The trees bore human 
fruit in black clusters. The fences were selvedged with 
humanity. All the doorsteps of the palatial stone fronts 
stood disgusted with the loads of country cousins they 
were compelled to bear. 

The audience inside the Coliseum was a scene for a 
lifetime. It gave you an idea of the sublimity of 
humanity such as is rarely afforded. There must have> 
been, including the performers, 50,000 people inside 
that building. Far as you could see, and you can see a 
great way in that building, was one vast sea of human 
faces. It was a sublime sight, and it was a beautiful 
sight as well, for the blues and purples of the ladies' 
apparel catching the sunlight which streamed in through 
the windows, made it seem like a garden of gorgeous 
flowers, and shine in splendid contrast with the reds and 
yellows of the flags and streamers, and when, in a 
moment of sudden applause, the waving of handkerchiefs 
fluttered over this vast crowd, it was hard to convince 
yourself that they were not white-winged birds, flying 
over the throng. For a time, the rush inside the Coli- 
seum was almost as terrific as that outside. 

Some delay was experienced in waiting for the Presi- 



272 The President. 

dent and his staff, and when they did enter, the whole 
audience had become seated. Their appearance was 
the signal for a general uprising. The great organ 
pealed out above the multitudinous din, " See the Con- 
quering Hero Comes." He advanced to his seat, in 
the centre of the house, amid a perfect storm of applause, 
waving of handkerchiefs, bravos and cheers, and stand- 
ing upon his sofa acknowledged them. 

When the President had taken his seat and order was 
restored, Carl Zerrahn took the conductor's stand to 
lead the festival overture, based upon the Luther Choral, 
Ein Feste Berg ist unser Gott, the simple theme of 
which had been sung the day before. The arrange- 
ment is by Nicolai, and is in fugue treatment, opening 
with the theme for all parts. The fugue is then taken 
by the orchestra and superbly worked up. The chorus 
anon takes the same fugue, and closes by returning to 
the original theme, which was given with immense 
power and effect. The programme was mainly of an 
oratorio character, and this school of music probably 
never before had such a magnificent illustration. The 
dignity, grandeur and sublimity, and the solemn power 
of the great oratorio master-pieces could never before 
have been fully felt. The first selections were the 
"Glory to God in the Highest," and the chorus, ''And 
the Glory of the Lord shall be Revealed," from the 
''Messiah," which were given with admirable effect and 
with better singing than characterized the first day's 
concert. 

The next number on the programme was the recita- 
tive and aria, ^'■Non piu di fiori,'' from Mozart's "La 
Clemenza di Tito," for Miss Adelaide Phillipps, and as 



Adelaide PJiillipps. 273 

that lady came forward she was received with very 
hearty applause, but not with that cordiality of greeting 
I had expected to witness from a Boston audience to a 
Boston singer. Her selection was a most unfortunate 
one. It was too florid in character and marred the 
unity of the oratorio nature of the performance. It 
would have been in much better taste also to have se- 
lected something in English than in Italian. It is but 
simple truth also to say that her singing was no better 
than her taste in selection. She was not able to cope 
with the obstacles of the house and the audience. But 
one tone of her voice was thoroughly distinct at the 
rear of the hall. Her singing, at a distance, was so 
very expressionless that it fell utterly cold and flat, and 
people talked and turned uneasily in their seats. And 
perhaps it was worse than all else that she did not sing 
true, and at one time was almost hopelessly floating 
along upon a discord. Every advantage was afforded 
her, for only a handful of instruments accompanied her, 
and these were toned down to pianissimo. Her fine 
chest voice, which is so effective on the operatic stage, 
was almost inaudible beyond the centre of the hall. A 
flutter of applause ran over the audience when she had 
finished, and then came Mendelssohn's magnificent 
chorus from "Elijah" — "He watching over Israel." 
Zerrahn leaves the orchestra in the hand of another 
conductor, and takes his place in the centre of the vast 
chorus with baton in hand. There must be no mistake 
made in Felix Mendelssohn's music. Its ineffable 
beauty must not be marred by a single spot or flaw. 
And it was not. The two conductors' batons moved as 
if they were in the hands of one, and, from first to 

19 



274 Parepa. 

last, the chorus and orchestra were together in perfect 
time and with the most tender regard for light and 
shade. I could not help wishing that Felix Mendelssohn 
himself could have been there. How small and feeble 
would the 500 Birmingham performers have seemed to 
him in the presence of this vast multitude ! How his 
great heart would have rejoiced within him to have 
heard this chorus, so full of dignity, and piety, and 
beauty, sung by such a massing of voices and instru- 
ments ! What letters he would have written to his 
sister ! To have heard that performance was the event 
of a lifetime, for it may never be done again. Had I 
been Carl Zerrahn, it seems to me, I should have been 
the happiest man in the world. If spirits are allowed 
to visit this lower world, then certainly the spirit of 
Mendelssohn must have been in that hall, and must 
have guided and inspired that baton, for it held the 
singers, organ and instruments together like magic, and 
when it had made its last beat, the audience broke out 
into loud and long continued applause. 

Parepa came upon the platform for the next number, 
"Let the Bright Seraphim," from Handel, and received 
an ovation which even eclipsed that given to the Presi- 
dent. Arbuckle took his place beside her, to play the 
trumpet obligato, using the cornet as players invariably 
do. The instrument and voice were twins in time and 
tone, and the responses of the singer to the trumpet 
came every time, as truthful as an echo. I have never 
heard a more marvelously beautiful piece of singing with 
an instrument, and, when it was finished, the applause 
was almost deafening in every part of the vast building, 
the chorus joining in with the audience. The cheers 



The President'' s Pieces. 275 

and hravos, which compelled an encore, fairly shook the 
building. 

In the interim, between the two parts, the Star- 
.Spangled Banner and the Anvil Chorus were repeated, 
for the gratification of the President. In the second 
part, the C major symphony of Schubert was given. 
The hour was growing late, and only the Andante and 
Finale were played. "The Heavens are Telling," sung 
with immense effect, closed the concert. 



June 17, 1869. 
The sudden death of Mrs. George L. Dunlap, of Chi- 
cago, during the concert yesterday, has caused a wide- 
spread feeling of sadness here, even among those who 
were not acquainted with her; while those who did 
know her, and were familiar with her many lovely traits 
of character, deeply feel this sudden bereavement. She 
passed away in the twinkling of an eye, literally without 
warning, and expired in the arms of one of her dearest 
friends, Mrs. Ellis, of Chicago. It was a startling fact 
in the midst of so much life ! Fifty thousand hearts 
pulsating to the sublime music from the great chorus, 
and one is suddenly stilled forever ! No one among the 
many thousands who were present yesterday entered 
with lighter heart, more buoyant spirits, or apparently 
better health ; and if you had been asked to select the 
one in that great throng whom Death would strike first, 
she would have been the last you would have selected. 
I saw her on Tuesday as she sat in her place, her face 
beaming with delight as she listened to the music, and 
I saw her again on yesterday, as she suddenly fell into 



276 In Memory. 

the arms of her brother like a rose snapped from its 
stem ; and I can scarcely yet comprehend that she is 
dead. She breathed her last breath as Parepa was sing- 
ing the angelic song, "Let the Bright Seraphim," and 
she passed from among us and joined those seraphim 
and continued the song. And it seems to me, if I had 
been permitted to look into that far country, that I 
should have seen her sitting by the side of the angelic 
old master, Handel, telling him of the celestial song 
which so suddenly died upon her ears in the presence of 
the vast multitude, whose song was as the voice of many 
Avaters, and that I should have seen him bending for- 
ward, with a thoughtful look, and listening to her as 
she told him of the "Messiah," which she had heard 
on the day before she died. I know that she and the 
master will be friends through all eternity, and thus the 
majesty of genius and the beauty of loveliness will be 
joined together forever. 

And to him who sits in bereavement to-day, may 
there come consolation and the gift of the tender pity 
of the Great Father, and may the darkened homes in 
Boston and Chicago be made holy for all his and their 
coming days, with the recollections of her loveliness and 
true womanly character. 

It is a clear, cloudless day, and had that man Gilmore, 
with the steam engine inside of him, made special ar- 
rangements with the weather-clerk, he could not have 
secured a more auspicious day. The crowd yesterday 
was great, but the crowd to-day is greater. 

The programme to-day is purely a popular one. 
There are the overture to Fra Diavolo, a Peace March 
composed for the occasion by Janotta, whoever he is. 



Commonplace Music. 277 

which is not original and very tiresome; the inevitable 
Anvil Chorus, with the artillery and bells; a sensational 
and rather commonplace overture, built up by C. C. 
Converse, on "Hail Columbia;" and national airs, 
which the orchestra flounder through rather than play. 
Indeed, if you watch Wulf Fries, Rosa, Schultze, or 
any of the leading players, you see their faces all scowl- 
ed up as they wade through so much musical swash, so 
unworthy of the great orchestra. In fact, there is no 
atmosphere of art here to-day. The only feature of in- 
terest in the Fra Diavolo overture is the trumpet solo, 
which is taken by fifty instruments instead of one, and 
gives out a clarion blast which might wake the dead. 
The rest of the overture, however does not go well. 
The second violins are shocking. Gilmore has not got 
them well in hand. In the Grand March, done by Ja- 
notta for the occasion, there are reminiscences all the 
way through, of Tannhauser, the Coronation and the 
Wedding March, and the connecting links are very 
weak, sometimes almost stupid. The man who writes 
marches for such an orchestra should be inspired. He 
should feel the electricity of the great audience tingling 
through his veins. Heavens ! If only Beethoven, 
Mendelssohn, Handel, Haydn, Meyerbeer, Rossini, 
anybody, were living to write for this organ and or- 
chestra. We want columbiads and have got pop-guns — • 
a mountain thunder-storm, and we have a silly April 
rain — a Jeremiah, and we have nothing better than 
Daniel Pratt. Converse's trivial arrangement of " Hail 
Columbia" is no better, perhaps not so good. It is 
profanation to devote a thousand instruments and an 
organ four times the power of that in the Music Hall to 



278 The Anvil Chorus. 

such commonplaces. The old masters would have died 
contented once to have got the baton in their hands 
with such a massing of instruments and voices for the 
production of their works. Then, again, we are treated 
to Bilse's ^^ Marchc Militaire,'" to the "Star Spangled 
Banner," the " Harp that Once thro' Tara's Halls," 
and the overture to " Stradella," all good enough in 
their way and in their place. But how feeble, how pur- 
poseless, how silly they all are in this place ! What 
does Hercules want of a wax doll? Or Samson of a 
child's grasp to carry off the gates of Gaza? 

We have again the "Anvil Chorus." To be sure, it 
goes well. The artillery is fired with strict precision, 
because it can't be fired any other way. It emphasizes 
the initial notes of the bars very grandly and very ef- 
fectively, but then what is the use of emphasizing such 
stuff at all ? The firemen pound their anvils very 
precisely, and on the very second of time, and make a 
very hearty cling-clang ; but it would be to more pur- 
pose were a hundred horses waiting to be shod. There 
is no music in all this. It is noisy ; it is sensational ; 
it is humbug; it is anything you please — but music. 
And yet the audience is hugely delighted and they de- 
mand the bis each day ; and this, too, in Boston, where 
the purists live — where art is supposed to have its home 
and flourish like the green bay tree. Tell it not in 
Gath that a Boston audience has encored Nqx^\'% Anvil 
Chorus, performed by red-shirted firemen, batteries of 
artillery, etc., and allowed the grand chorals of Luther 
and "He Watching Over Israel," which were done as 
they have never been done before — which were so full of 
sublimity and majesty and dignity, and so musically ex- 



MendelssoJuCs Chorus. 279 

cellent in their treatment that it made one's heart fairly 
stop beating — to go by ahnost without recognition. It 
seemed to me that all possibilities of life and all condi- 
tions of the hereafter were bound up in that perform- 
ance of Mendelssohn's chorus. Zerrahn himself ap- 
proached it with fear and trembling. The organ was 
silenced. The instruments were toned down. He 
would not even trust himself upon the conductor's stand, 
but took his place right in the heart of the vast chorus. 
How sweetly the sopranos take the opening of the 
theme, and then come the tenors alone — " Shouldst 
thou walking in grief." How sublimely that prayer is 
delivered ? Then how part after part rises in splendid cli- 
max and finally dies away in a soft piano, with just the 
faintest ripple of sounding, like the plashing of waves 
on a beach, stealing across the orchestra! There is a 
slapping of hands among the audience as if the music 
had been tolerated, but they will go crazy when the 
Anvil Chorus comes. 

To-day, I have sat within three rows of the con- 
ductor's stand. The effect is very grand, but it is more 
noise than music, and you can put nothing together. If 
you go to the rear of the hall, you get a better harmonic 
blending and less noise. Indeed, a thousand per- 
formers in Farwell Hall would make just as much noise 
as the ten thousand performers do in the Coliseum, or, 
rather, the effect would strike you with equal power. 
It is probable that no amount of technical skill upon 
the part of the conductor, or of force and fidelity upon 
the part of the singers, could change this. It is im- 
possible for such a great body of sound, occupying such 
a vast space, to reach a single ear with anything like its 



28o The Effect. 

full force, or even with any degree of regularity; and 
if you watch the conductor, you will be still more con- 
fused, for, apparently, he is beating ahead of time — such 
is the discrepancy of time between the blow of the baton 
and the speed with which time travels. The chorus 
may, and with trivial exceptions does, follow the beat 
of the conductor with great precision, but the confusion 
is always noticeable. Again, the distance from those 
in the rear of the chorus to the front ranks is very 
large, and, although all may start upon the beat, by the 
time the sounds reach you, there is a difference, very 
slight, it is true, but nevertheless perceptible, especially 
in words ending with "s," "t," or any harsh letter. 
In the long notes of the chorals which are decidedly the 
features of the concert, you do not notice it so much, 
but, in many of the quick choruses, sometimes every- 
thing seems at sea to you, when, in reality, it is going 
very smoothly. With so vast a chorus, also, it is very 
difficult to preserve the delicate transitions. You can 
get a fortissimo or a pianissimo, but it is extremely dif- 
ficult to get the fo}'te and piano. The tendency of this 
multitude is either to sing too loud or too soft, and 
there is the same fact noticeable upon the part of the 
orchestra. With the organ it is different. Mr. Wilcox, 
at any moment he pleases, has the power in his hands 
to drown chorus and orchestra both, with its thunder. 
Its tones fairly pierce through and through the aggre- 
gate of sound at times with almost startling effect, and, 
wherever there is a weak spot, it can be covered up 
without difficulty. In the chorals, the power is spe- 
cially manifested. In the hands of a skillful person, one 
beat of a baton would be all that was necessary to keep 



The Volume of Sound. 281 

the chorus to its work. It could not get away from that 
organ if it tried — the pedal bass is so immense, so up- 
lifting and so sustaining. 

I think there is a universal disappointment in regard 
to the volume of sound to be produced by this chorus. 
People have imagined that the sound of ten thousand 
voices in the Coliseum, for instance, would be ten times 
as loud as one thousand voices in the Music Hall ; but 
in reality it is no louder. They did not make calcula- 
tions for the increased size of the building and the ob- 
stacles placed in the way of the traveling of sound and 
grasping it with the ear. My own disappointment has 
been a happy one. I had thought the noise would be 
simply noise, but the noise has been music. It has now 
been thoroughly proved that a chorus and orchestra of 
this size can be manipulated and not only be made to 
sing and play together, but to sing and play with ex- 
pression and even approximate to a certain degree of 
light and shade. But yet, apart from the magnetism, 
there is in such a vast human presence, I do not see that 
the increase in numbers is really an advantage in mak- 
ing effects. It was a splendid experiment to try, how- 
ever, and it speaks volumes for the skill of Mr. Gilmore, 
who conceived and organized it, and for Mr. Zerrahn, 
who has conducted the oratorio and classical parts of 
the programme. 



June 18, 1869. 
The crowd is not quite so large as that of yesterday, 
and yet the building is well filled. The programme 
was almost exclusively classical, and was opened with 



282 Beethoven and Mendelssohn. 

Weber's brilliant "Jubilee Overture," with the baton in 
Eichberg's hands. It was not given very effectively un- 
til the national theme in the finale was reached. This 
was played superbly by the brasses. The Fifth Symphony 
of Beethoven was only given in part, the Andante and 
last half of the Finale being played. It was something 
to be grateful for, to get even a fraction of the sympho- 
ny, but it seemed almost cruel to cut the work or mar 
its unity in the least. It is the first time I have seen 
the orchestra really get down to its work as if they loved 
it. There was no talking among them, no listlessness. 
Every man sat in his place as eager for the start as a 
hound to slip from his leash, one eye upon Zerrahn, and 
the other upon his score. Two policemen standing in 
the aisle near the first violinists are talking together, 
and Carl Rosa and a half dozen others snap at them to 
stop their gossip. Apropos of Carl Rosa, he has proved 
himself an artist through this jubilee. He has been in - 
his place every day promptly at the hour, and has played 
through every note of every programme. I regret that 
Ole Bull, who has been in the city during the whole 
week, only appeared on the opening day. It will be 
a matter of surprise to his admirers that he should so far 
have lacked enthusiasm as to absent himself upon such 
an occasion. The two movements of the symphony 
were played conscientiously and con amore, and there 
was little to ask for which was not given in its pro- 
duction. 

Zerrahn seems to have a partiality for Mendelssohn, 
for when he came to the " Elijah" chorus, " Thanks be 
to God, He laveth the thirsty land," his instructions 
were more than usually explicit. The chorus, however. 



Close of the Concert. 283 

did not get the beat, and for a moment there was danger 
of a catastrophe. Zerrahn left his stand as quick as a 
rocket, and, waving his baton, went down into the 
chorus. The electricity of his manner fused the dis- 
cordant elements, and with "The waters gather the}^ 
rush along," all were together. Zerrahn remained at 
his post, and Schultze took the orchestra in hand, with 
his bow for baton, and the two batons moved like 
magic, and chorus and orchestra played like magic to 
the end, sweeping through the jubilant number like the 
march of a storm. If the chorus had never sung any 
thing else this would have paid for the difficulties of or- 
ganization and been a rich remuneration for all the 
labors. 

Miss Phillipps made her second appearance of the 
season, and was cordially greeted. She sang the famil- 
iar "Lascia Pianga" of Handel's, which is one of her 
concert favorites. She appeared to much better ad- 
vantage than on Tuesday, mainly because the selection 
was in better taste; but, sitting even as near as I did, her 
voice seemed hard and cold and she was evidently sing- 
ing with great effort. At the close, the enthusiasm of 
the chorus, joined with that of the audience, secured 
her an encore, which she acknowledged by repeating the 
air, and singing part of it to the chorus. 

The programme was closed with the Hallelujah Cho- 
rus from the Messiah, the whole chorus, orchestra and 
audience rising to their feet while it was performed. In 
spite of its inherent difficulties and broken time, it was 
carried through superbly, and as the final "Amen" 
pealed out with majestic power, the Jubilee was at an 
end, so far as the great chorus was concerned. 



284 The Results. 

June 19, 1869. 

The day of Jubilee has gone. The great Peace Fes- 
tival has passed into the annals of musical history. The 
outside halo of peace which encircled it shone so dimly 
that I do not conceive any national significance attaches 
to it. It is to be judged purely as a musical event, and 
it will take its place in musical annals as an ambitious 
and bold experiment, and, in large degree, as a grand 
success. There were points open to honest criticism, 
and some of these points I have indicated in these let- 
ters ; but many of these defects were beyond the remedy 
either of conductor or chorus. It was a musical success, 
because it has shown that ten thousand people can 
sing together and one thousand instruments play to- 
gether, not only both in time and tune, but also with 
sufficient expressson to make effects. It is not to be 
denied that some very paltry music has been played — in 
fact, the whole programme of Thursday was devoted 
just to this class of music — and that many of the num- 
bers in each day were purely meretricious and sensa- 
tional. But the bare fact of the organization and 
manipulation of such a vast chorus and orchestra stands 
now, and will always stand, as a monument of which 
the projector and his assistants have a right to be 
proud. 

The great chorus dispersed last evening, having ac- 
complished its arduous work. Exhausted as they must 
have been with the four days' task, I doubt whether any 
one of the ten thousand singers closed his or her book 
without regret. It was something to be proud of to 
have sung and played at this Jubilee. I can appreciate 
the feelings of a prominent Chicago bass singer, who 



The School- Children. 285 

had been only a listener during a portion of the pro- 
gramme on Friday. The next number was the grand 
chorus, "Thanks be to God," from "Elijah." He hur- 
ried over to me, and, seizing me by the collar, said : 
"Tell me how I can get into that chorus. I cannot 
stand this any longer. I must ?,mg the Elijah piece." I 
directed him \\o\x to get admission, and the next I saw 
of him he was in the front rank of the bassos, joining 
his voice with the thousands around him in the grand 
swelling anthem of praise. 

To-day has been given almost exclusively to the 
school-children. It was a grand sight to look at the 
adult chorus, but it was a beautiful sight to look at the 
children. Eight thousand of them were gathered to- 
gether from the public schools. The girls were clad in 
white, and filled the wings, the boys occupying the 
places of the tenors and bassos. The children arrived 
promptly — do they ever arrive any other way? — a~nd 
took their places without a particle of disorder. The 
white dresses of the girls, trimmed with ribbons of varied 
colors, their fresh young faces, and the eager, enthusias- 
tic faces of the boys, made up a picture of beauty not 
often looked upon. It was like a huge gdi.rdQn paiia-re 
of flowers, and, as great shafts of sunlight shot in 
through the windows and bathed them with gold, and 
fans waved in the happy throng like the wings of a mul- 
titude of birds, it made a sight which may be the sight 
of a lifetime. The audience also was an immense one, 
completely filling the building, and thus the coi/p if ceil 
was fully as beautiful, if not as imposing, as on any 
day during the week. 

The performance commenced with the overture to 



286 The CJio ruses. 

"William Tell," which was rendered with more anima- 
tion than on Wednesday. The effects of the cellos, 
headed by Wulf Fries, were particularly striking. 
Never before have I heard this noblest of all instruments 
develop the human voice tones as it has to-day. The 
applause had hardly subsided when Eichberg rapped the 
juvenile chorus to attention with his baton. The rising 
of the children was not like that of the adults. The 
latter invariably rose slowly and successively, rank after 
rank. The children, in their impatience, fairly sprang 
to their feet, and stood, books in hand, eager for the 
signal. When it was given, they took the beat together 
grandly, and commenced "Hail Columbia" in unison. 
As they progressed, however, the instruments were 
quicker than they, and there was some lagging, but the 
effect was very novel and striking. Although the girls 
outnumbered the boys, the latter' s voices were much 
stronger and made themselves most clearly heard. The 
freshness, purity and clearness of the voices easily ren- 
dered them superior to the orchestra, and even the 
organ seemed to affect them but little. There was no 
difficulty in hearing them, for each one of the little 
people was singing for dear life and working with all 
the zest and enthusiasm of a child's nature. By some 
process known only to children, they came out together 
at the end of each stanza, although they sometimes di- 
verged widely in the middle. 

Think of children singing Mercadante's music ! But 
they did it, and superbly, too. His chorus, "Now the 
Twilight Softly Stealing," was given by them admira- 
bly. It was arranged as a solo for sopranos and altos, 
and then taken in unison by the full chorus, and I have 



Phillipps Again. 287 

no musical memory sweeter than the cadences of that 
chorus, which were given with such beauty and fresh- 
ness by these children. 

Miss Phillipps is set down for the next number, and, 
as she advances down through the musicians to the 
stand, the children give her a handsome ovation, the 
girls waving their handkerchiefs and the boys cheering 
as only boys can cheer. She is going to sing the brm- 
rt'/i'/ from Lucrezia Borgia — "II Segreto." Everybody 
has heard her sing it in the bewitching role of Maffeo 
Orsini, but we may never hear her sing it again under 
circumstances like these, for she is now singing it to at 
least forty thousand people. Eichberg was cool enough 
with the children, but he is very nervous now, and he 
gives the te7npo so fast to the orchestra that Rosa and 
half a dozen others look up in surprise. Adelaide her- 
self grows pale and says to him, "Too fast, too fast." 
The baton moves slower — and how marvelously the in- 
struments obey ! It is all right. Adelaide does not 
look much like Maffeo in her high-necked white dress, 
but she sings the famous drinking-song in excellent 
taste, and succeeds in making her voice heard through- 
out the hall better than she has heretofore. She gets a 
hearty encore, and repeats the aria, accompanying it 
this time with a prolonged trill, which was superbly 
formed*. 

Again, the children are on their feet. Brinley Rich- 
ards' solo and chorus "So Merrily over the Ocean 
Spray," are the numbers. The air is given with a rock- 
ing, undulating rhythm, which is admirably preserved 
by the children, and the effect gains in intensity as the 
full chorus and organ add their volume of sound. 



288 Qiiis Est Homo? 

Almost before the children are in their seats, the tall 
form of Ole Bull comes down the aisle, and they rise 
and give him a hearty reception. He chooses his little 
«y';^/</«/6' minor melody, the "Mother's Prayer," bends 
his head over his violin, closes his eyes, and plays away, 
ravishingly sweet, but so pianissimo that only the or- 
chestra and a few of the front rows can hear him. Those 
who do hear him have a great treat, and the orchestra 
is so charmed that it raps lustily upon the backs of its 
violins. 

Parepa, clad in an elegant black moire-antique, re- 
ceives an enthusiastic ovation. She sings "Let the 
Glad Seraphim," which she sang the other day when 
poor Mrs. Dunlap was dying, accompanied by Arbuckle 
whose cornet needs only a few tricks of tonguing to be 
superior to Levy's. What superb responses the cornet 
makes to her, and how perfectly voice and instrument 
match each other ! It is something to remember^ 
this duo. But there is another duo even better. It is 
Rossini's matchless Quis est Homo. And who is to sing 
it? Only Parepa and Adelaide Phillipps ! Aren't you 
glad now you came to the Jubilee? I will wager some- 
thing you will never hear this sung again as these two 
women sing it. I am afraid hereafter I shall listen to 
the amateurs practising the great duo with less than my 
usual patience. I never expect to hear it sung better. I 
never expected it would be allowed me to hear it sung 
so well. What expression ! What style ! What artis- 
tic method! What a rare and rich vocal blending! 
Even the orchestra gets enthusiastic, and some of the 
old veterans look up in absolute surprise at this alto in 
white and this soprano in black, as they reach the ca^ 



The End. 289 

denza in a magnificent burst of melody, which starts 
people to their feet, wild with enthusiasm, crying bravo, 
waving handkerchiefs, hats, canes and umbrellas. Of 
course ..they have to repeat it, and of course everybody 
gets wild again. 

And then the children sing Old Hundred, and the 
audience rising, sings it with them. And they sing well, 
for there are only 9,000 of the choristers in the audience. 
Isn't it sublime? 

"Praise nim above, ye heavenly host, 
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost." 

And the Jubilee is over. The music is hushed. The 
voice of the great organ is silent. The great waves of 
the chorus have subsided. The singers and the players 
have gone, but I think, to their latest day, they will not 
tire of telling their children that they sang and played 
at the great Peace Jubilee. 

There are a few parting incidents in the press room, 
and among them a very graceful deed upon the part of 
the orchestra in presenting Mr. Gilmore with an elegant 
watch and chain. And then everybody gives Gilmore 
three cheers. 

The man who has carried this thing in his head two 
years, and finally organized it into a success, smilingly 
says : 

" Gentlemen: We propose to repeat this Jubilee as a 
centennial — one hundred years hence. You are all en- 
gaged." 

One hundred years hence ! Every heart in the great 
sea of humanity which has surged in and out of the Col- 
iseum this week will be silent then. We shall all be si- 
lent then. We shall all be sleeping the sleep of the 
20 



290 Farewell. 

just, with a stone at our heads and a stone at our feet, 
where no sound of music can reach us. Other voices 
will sing above us, and other instruments play, and little 
shall we reck of it. The record of the Jubilee will out- 
live us all. But will they have in the music of the future 
anything better, anything grander, anything sublimer 
than the music of this week has been? 

I think not. And so to the great chorus whose sound 
has been as the voice of many waters ; to the great 
orchestra which has given us the immortal Fifth Sympho- 
ny as Beethoven never heard it given ; to the mighty pul- 
sation of the great organ heart; to the voices of the 
children in their sweet, fresh unison ; to her that died in 
the midst of the music, and was translated to the heavens 
in a chariot of harmony, whose beauty, and loveliness, 
and true womanliness will be forever sacred to those 
who knew her ; to the Peace Jubilee, with all its pleas- 
ant associations and grand accomplishments, hail and 
farewell. 

"Let us have peace." 




THE DOUBLE LIFE. 




WRITE from the pleasant little hamlet of 
Cherry Valley, under the grateful shade of the 
locusts and poplars. Scarlet fuschias, pendant 
from their curved stems, are swaying in the gentle west 
wind, which is the favorite wind of the flowers. The 
odorous breath of the geranium and sweet-briar loads 
the languid air with fragrant blessing. The leaves of 
the trees overhead just ripple in the wind, like little 
green waves, and sometimes seem to be whispering to- 
gether about some of those secrets of nature which you 
and I can never know, as our ears are too gross — the 
same secrets which little bugs tell each other in the 
grass — which the lightnings tell the clouds, as they dart 
in and out their ragged fringes, like swallows darting in 
and out the eaves — which the night-winds tell the 
mountain-tops in the solemn darkness — which the birds 
sing to each other in umbrageous tree-tops — which the 
fairies above the earth and gnomes under the earth tell 
to each other at sunrise and set — the secrets which the 
Faun knew when he called the animals to him. Some 
drowsy birds in the trees are piping summer songs to 
each other. A magic stillness broods in the air in this 
enchanted valley. Enchanted, because all sounds — the 



292 The Maiden Aunt 

patter of the leaves, the songs of birds, the laughter of 
children, the lowing of herds, even the drowsy hum of 
the house-fly — somehow seem to you to be at a distance 
and, in traveling the distance, come to you fraught with 
suggestions of music and like veiled spirits of sound, 
rather than the real substance. The leaves of the corn 
are flashing like green blades in the sunshine, and the 
grain-fields on these fertile hill-sides map the country 
in alternate strips of green and emerald. And over- 
head, the great concave of the sky, which shuts down 
upon this valley like a cover, is enameled in blue and 
white, and scrolled with tufts and whirls of fleecy clouds, 
past the skill of all cunning architects. 

You see. Old Blobbs and Mrs. Blobbs, and Mignon 
and Celeste, and Aurelia and the baby, and even Boosey 
and Fitz-Herbert, are all out here together. The circle 
is complete, save the link that was broken last winter, 
when the Maiden Aunt went to rejoin him she had 
mourned so long and for whom she had waited so pa- 
tiently. But, somehow, we never think of her as gone, 
although she is sleeping in sound of the surf she loved 
to hear and in sight of the waves which used to talk to 
her, in the nights when the storms were all abroad and 
great ships hurried by in the darkness, like cloudy 
ghosts of argosies long since rotted in the sands. She 
seems always to be with us, she was so lovable, so close- 
ly bound to tis, so gentle in soul, and yet so mysterious 
in her life — or, rather, in her double life; for 1 do not 
think she lived altogether here. Have you never had 
the feeling come over you, suddenly as a flash leaps 
from a cloud, that your soul has left the body — that you 
have shed, as it were, the physical shell which has 



The Dotib/e Life. 293 

hemmed you in, and that you are no longer confined 
within the bounds of matter, but are free as a bird to 
roam through space? I sometimes think this must be 
the feeling when death severs the connection between 
soul and body, and that the effect niust be ecstatic to a 
degree of which we have little comprehension, when 
every emotion is tempered with this "vesture of decay." 
I think the Maiden Aunt lived this double life. Some- 
times she was intensely human, and her love and care 
for us all were unbounded. But again there came a 
strange expression in her eyes and a strange look in her 
face, as if a chink in the heavens had suddenly opened, 
and the glamor of its light shone upon her, and through 
the cloudy rent she were talking with some familiar 
friend who had gone before. At such times, she did 
not seem to see us, or even to be aware of our presence. 
Her eyes had that far-off, penetrating look which you 
sometimes see in children ; and we always left her aloile 
at such times, for she was then very sacred to us. 

In the sunset light last evening — and what a sunset it 
was ! — the whole West a sea of rare transparent greenish- 
blue, flecked with clouds of gold, and purple, and pink, 
and mother-of-pearl, which floated in it like islands, 
melting into all fanciful shapes, as the ferns, and palms, 
and turrets melt in the mirage, the whole landscape 
bathed in a translucent flood of golden light — in such a 
sunset, we took one of the Maiden Aunt's letters, which 
we keep tied up with a lock of her dark and silver- 
sprinkled hair, and I read therefrom an extract, in which 
she says : 

"I think we live two lives. One of them is the life 
of this world, a thoroughly material and physical life. 



294 ^^^^ Double Life. 

It is made up of toils and cares, burdens and pains. It 
grows out of the lives of others, is closely interwoven 
with them, and almost depends upon them for its exist- 
ence. It attaches itself, sometimes, to one other life, as 
a vine attaches itself to the tree ; sometimes it draws 
sustenance from many. It is, more or less, a superficial 
life, although it may accomplish great deeds and suffer 
heroic sufferings. It is of the earth, however, and never 
soars beyond it. No mystery attaches to it, for it is 
never called upon to perform mysterious deeds. It is 
comprised within the limits of threescore-and-ten, and 
has no past or future. Its mission belongs to the body, 
and when the body perishes, its mission ends. It has 
no recollections coming from any time before itself. It 
makes no prophecies of events in the future. 

" The other life we live in ourselves, and it is as mys- 
terious as was the enigma of the Sphinx in the solemn 
silence of the desert. It takes no thought for the body,- 
for it is the life of the soul. We cannot explain this 
life to others, for we do not understand it ourselves. It 
is a starry stranger, imprisoned within the corporeal bars 
and of mysterious origin and destiny. The fates who 
weave the fabric of our lives, and Atropos, who stands 
by with the unerring shears to sever the thread, 
have no power over it. Have we not lived this life be- 
fore, and shall we not live it again when the light of 
this physical life is snuffed out like a farthing rush ? If 
not, how is it that sometimes a sweet strain of music we 
have never heard before, a solemn voice in the wash of 
the waves, a perfume of some flower by the wayside, a 
tone in some human voice, will recall the dim image of 
something we arc confident has never happened in this 



The Double Life. 295 

physical life? If not in this physical life, when and 
where did it happen? Have we ever lived before this 
life, and shall we live in it again after this body has de- 
cayed ? Do we fulfil the mission of this world in the 
brief span of one life-time ? If our life has no end, has 
it ever had a beginning ? Has immortality or eternity 
a commencement ? These are questions which occur 
to me, especially after those moments when, as I confi- 
dently believe, the soul leaves the body, and expands 
into space and embraces the infinite. I acknowledge 
that I cannot answer these questions. They are a part 
of the great mystery of life, which not only envelopes 
us, but all nature, in its cloud, and reaches, in its influ- 
ences and its developments, from the grain of sand on 
the sea-shore up to the Throne of God. 

" I think this life, also, is not altogether of it- 
'^self. Other lives, other fates and other natures are 
working together in us to add to its mystery. These 
mysterious influences at work within us compel us to 
commit acts, which we call impulses, for which we are 
no more accountable than the hurricane for its destruc- 
tion. They give us moments when we are filled with a 
joy almost hysterical, for which we cannot account ; and 
other moments when we are sunk into depths of despair, 
and all the world seems veiled in black, although we 
know the sun is shining. At such times, others are act- 
ing in us and through us. It may be some old ancestor, 
who died hundreds of years ago, whose life was so strong 
in some trait that he sent it down through the years from 
this one to that one, and it makes its first appearance in 
you. He or she — he whose life was lost in the passion 
of some great ecstacy, or she whose life was eclipsed in 



296 Dream Life. 

a cloud of despair which dethroned reason — is speaking 
with your tongue, and is looking out of your eyes. At 
such times, your voice assumes a tone not your own ; 
your eyes show a light which is foreign to you. An- 
other has entered and taken possession of you. You 
cannot estimate the great influence which all those men 
and women who hang upon your walls and look down 
upon you from their dim canvasses exercise upon you. 

"And this life also manifests itself in sleep, when it 
takes us into the gorgeous cloudland of dreams, and 
paints such fantastic images, and unveils a world of 
which we get glimpses in no other manner — a world of 
prophecies and strange presentiments, in which, freed 
from the trammels of the body, the soul roams at will, 
and sees what has passed and what is to come ; in which 
we suffer tortures keener than those of earth, and enjoy 
the beatitudes of the blest ; in which the poor man is 
richer than Dives, and Lazarus finds rest from his trou- 
bles; and in which all of us get compensation for the 
loss of all we held precious, in communion with and 
possession of them, although only for a little moment." 

This is the substance of what the Maiden Aunt said in 
her letter, and we all talked about it in the fast-fading 
light until the darkness set in and the rain commenced 
to patter down upon the lilac leaves with a dreamy 
sort of sound. We gathered about the piano, and 
sang those four-part Lieder of Felix Mendelssohn's, and 
then we pledged the memory of the Maiden Aunt in the 
golden Verzenay and drank the good night willie wacht, 
and thus we spent a memorial day at Cherry Valley, 
nestling down in the hollow of the hills like a callow 
robin in its nest, and we slept the sleep of the just, lull- 



Sleep. 



297 



ed to rest by the rain-drops playing merry fantasies on 
the shingles, each of us agreeing that the day was one 
to be tied up with white ribbon and laid away among 
the precious keepsakes. And in our dreams came to 
each the form of a loved one, and our sleep was made 
beautiful with all pleasant images. 

July 17, 1S69. 




LOVE AND THE BL UE EL O WER. 




E were all at tea last evening, and at the tea- 
table we talk more than usual, for the tea is but 
the shadow of a meal with the harmless inspira- 
tion of the tea-pot. Thus it happened that each began 
to tell of what had occurred in his or her little world 
during the day. Aurelia had a thousand things to tell 
about the intellectual and physical miracles performed 
by that wonderful baby, which, of course, every baby, 
from Cain down, has performed. But they were per- 
formed for the first time for her, and of course we listen 
to them as if they were new revelations to us, and we 
would not for the world dissipate the bright colors with 
which she invests all that little one does by telling her 
that every mother's world is glowing with the same 
pretty colors, or that all of us once were just as wonder- 
ful babies as hers, only somehow we lost all our super- 
natural powers as the years came and and went. Celeste 
had been shopping, and her tongue ran glibly on the 
"beautiful," "sweet pretty," "lovely," "delightful," 
"loves of," etc., fabrics which she had seen at Ham- 
lin's, and she grew quite indignant when she told how 
young Yard Stick became angry when he had pulled 



The Day, 299 

down seventy-three different pieces of dress goods, only 
to find that she merely dropped in to look about a little ; 
neither was it any compensation to that intellectual and 
highly artistic youth when she purchased a ball of tape. 
Mrs. Blobbs said but little, for it had not been with her 
one of those days which we lay away tied up with white 
ribbon. Old Blobbs had come home from the office 
earlier than usual, looking very pale and very feeble. A 
dark shadow is sweeping across the house — so dark that 
we do not see any light beyond it, and the waters 
through which the dear good woman is wading, grow 
deeper and deeper, and the mists which begin to blind 
her eyes are those which forever haunt the Valley of the 
Shadow. Old Blobbs was with us at the table but said 
nothing. The contracted brow and firmly-set mouth, 
the great veins in his forehead and the far-off look in his 
eyes, told us of suffering, and that even now he foresaw 
a messenger coming to him with tidings, of the pur- 
port of which he was well aware. Fitz-Herbert had 
had nothing to do all the livelong day, and Boosey 
was not much better off, so these two young gentlemen 
had little to say for themselves. Mignon had dreamed 
the day away, feeding the canary, tending her mignon- 
ettes, and heliotropes, and fuschias, and weaving deli- 
cious little reveries on the piano. She lives only among 
beautiful things, and could not exist away from them, 
any more than a humming bird could live, deprived of 
its roses and tulips. 

Blanche's story was supplied by a letter which Mig- 
non had just received from her, and as it contained an 
important piece of intelligence, she read it to us, as fol- 
lows : 



300 Blanche's Letter. 

Saratoga, August lo. 
Dear, Darling Mignon : 

Lean down your head to me and let me whisper in 
your ear that I am engaged. You are aware that I have 
known Harry a long time, and that he is possessed of 
all those good and noble qualities calculated to make 
me happy. I am already in a new world in which I 
know no one but my hero. You do not know how good 
and kind and beautiful he is. Our world is quite apart 
from this fashionable world, where every man is a gam- 
bler or a fortune-hunter, and every woman an enameled 
decolcfte. We ask for nothing but each other's society 
and we are content to let the others play out their little 
comedies and farces to the bitter end. I have given 
him my whole heart, and yet, Mignon, there is love 
for you still, and for all our little circle. I cannot stop 
now to tell you of Saratoga life, it seems so tame and so 
tawdry to the great happiness which Harry brought to 
me last evening, as we were strolling under the elms. It 
seems to me there is no one here but Harry. He is my 
world and I live in him, and after him I send to you, 
Mignon, my best love. 

I must stop, for Harry will get impatient. He is 
waiting to take me to ride, but I could not go until I had 
informed you of my great happiness. 

Your devoted friend, Blanche. 

P. S. — Kiss Celeste and Aurelia for me. 

B. 

P. S. No. 2 — Write me soon. 

B. 

As Mignon closed the letter, she asked me why I was 
smiling, and I said : 



The Old Story. 301 

My dear Mignon : I was smiling at this repetition of 
the old, old story. It is one of the most curious revela- 
tions in these affairs de cceur, that the engaged parties 
always leave this world and create one of their own of 
tlfe most gorgeous description. In that new world the 
skies are always translucent, the air is full of winged 
Cupids and young cherubim, flowers grow under their 
feet, birds sing on every branch, and no inhabitants 
grosser than fairies dwell in it. In that world there 
are no storms, no pains, no sorrows. Every breeze is 
laden with odors, "and the beautiful rainbow of promise 
always spans its sky from one horizon to the other. 
There are none of the vulgar realities or harassing cares 
of this world in that. The happy pair feed on ambrosia 
and nectar supplied for them gratuitously, and have no 
fears based upon bread and butter or other provender, 
which troubles us mortals so much to provide for our- 
selves. They look upon everything through some pecu- 
liar medium which transforms it into beauty and clothes 
it with the sheen of the prism. All gross sounds are 
turned into music. All the faculties of the soul become 
merged in the one faculty of the imagination, and that 
imagination knows no bound especially in the case of 
the woman. She always makes the man a hero. She 
surrounds him with a halo just as pious Catholics sur- 
round their saints. She looks at him through an atmos- 
phere which magnifies him into something quite above 
the follies and stupidities of the world. The other day, 
as I was passing along Lake street, I met an engaged 
couple. They had just come in from Kankakee to see 
the sights of the city, and as they wandered along, 
hand in hand, looking into the shop windows, the fu- 



302 Idealizing. 

ture bridegroom munching an apple, and the future bride 
doing the same to a pear, I could not but regard these 
two innocent lambs with interest. To be sure, the fu- 
ture bridegroom was a tall, shambling, ungainly, awk- 
ward, red-faced lout, but to her he was the Admirable 
Crichton, the ideal of her dreams, and the hero of her 
life. She was in that world of which I have spoken. 
She did not see the smiling faces about her as they re- 
garded this innocent simplicity. She was walking on 
roses with him. The pear she munched was ambrosia 
bought of a beneficent old fairy at the street corner, who 
sold them for ten cents a piece. A year or two hence, 
when they get settled down upon their Kankakee farm, 
he will be nothing but the old man and she will be plain 
Hannah, superintending the dairy and the kitchen gar- 
den. But now John Thomas is a hero. 

It is another fact that the man himself was not aware 
that he was such a hero. Neither were those who have 
been acquainted with him aware that he was made of 
heroic stuff. To himself and to them, he has been 
plain Smith or plain Brown, a decent sort of fellow, 
plodding along, making money enough to pay his board 
bills with, and never supposing he was destined to set 
the world on fire. He had never before dreamed that 
he was a hero. He had never before supposed that the 
rhythm of his very prosaic life would ever assume the 
epic form. The same fact is true in fiction. The he- 
roes of the novels are very commonplace people, but 
the heroines always make them believe they are super- 
natural people. Auerbach appreciated this weakness in 
human nature when he made Irma — that splendid, wo- 
manly type — fall in love with the King, and invest him 



Hero - WorsJiip. 303 

with all the attributes of a demi-god, when, in reality, 
he was nothing but a very ordinary, commonplace, sel- 
fish, ungrateful mortal, who could no more rise to the 
great height of her nature than the clod can rise to the 
cloud. You will find that same weakness brought out 
in that new book of Spielhagen's — "Problematic Char- 
acters" — where Melitta, a beautiful type of woman, falls 
in love with Oswald, a vain, shallow, purposeless cox- 
comb, who adores every pretty face he meets. Yet 
Melitta invests him with all the heroic attributes, and 
wastes her great love upon him, as the ancient maiden 
wasted her kisses upon the marble insensibility of Apollo. 
Thus it is that once in every man's life, at least, he 
becomes a hero, whether he will or not, and it is not 
the least curious part of the matter that he does not 
question at all, but accepts the position at once, and 
allows himself to be set up as an object of idolatry. He 
knows it is all humbug, but he is willing to accept it, 
and usually ends by temporarily convincing himself he 
is a hero and an idol. Of course, after hero and hero- 
ine become one flesh, he gets the conceit knocked out 
of him, takes off his insignia, quietly gets down from 
his pedestal, and consents to become what he was be- 
fore his hero-existence — a very ordinary mortal, who 
has to pay taxes, work for a weekly stipend, earn bread 
and butter, and eat it. Now, this is precisely the case 
with our mutual friend, Blanche. Harry is, undoubt- 
edly, a well-meaning, good-natured fellow, who will 
earn a good living and take care of Blanche in a credit- 
able manner; but Blanche has magnified him into a 
hero, and looks at him through other spectacles than 
ours. Usually, these cases suggest their own remedies. 



304 Fatality. 

and carry their cure with them. The disease wears it- 
self out, like whooping-cough or cold in the head. But 
there is danger in allowing it to run and get seated, so 
that the inevitable tumble which must come, sooner or 
later, will hurt them. After a specified time, the rain- 
bow will dissipate into a dull, leaden color, the flowers 
will fade, the nectar will grow sour, the gorgeous pal- 
aces will transform themselves into wooden cottages or 
brick fronts, the cupids and cherubim will go in out of 
the wet, and the birds will hush their songs. In other 
words, the dull round of life, which every man must 
tread, the ever-pressing, vulgar cares and anxieties which 
follow one like a Nemesis, will overtake the hero and 
the heroine, and it will be well for them to be prepared 
for the catastrophe. Flying is a pleasant feat to per- 
form, and causes very thrilling sensations, but if you go 
too near the sun, remember the fate of Icarus, and look 
out for your head when you fall. If Mignon is so dis- 
posed, when she writes to Blanche, she might suggest 
these things, and mingle a little caution with her con- 
gratulations. 

There is another view of love which is very sad, be- 
cause it is fatal. Ordinarily these attachments are part 
and parcel of that world-spirit which is ever changing 
and yet ever constant, which allies the present and past 
together, and convinces you there is nothing new, but 
that each event, although it may seem to be done for 
the first time, is only a repetition of the old miracle. 
This fatality of love, for which there is no cure, has 
been beautifully likened in one of Novalis' works to a 
Blue Flower, for which a lone Minnesinger once pined 
in vain and died. No eye of mortal ever saw this 



The Blue Flower. 305 

flower, no man knows where it blooms. Yet its beauty 
is known of men, and its fragrance fills the world. 
There are few whose senses are delicate enough to per- 
ceive this perfume ; few whose eyes can see the Blue 
Flower, even though it blooms right before them. 
Novalis further says that the nightingale, pouring out its 
sad songs to the moon, knows and loves this flower ; 
that all men and women, who have tried to voice their 
sorrow in poetry, and yet could not tell their feelings, 
have inhaled this perfume of the Blue Flower. The 
perfume of this flower is in music. It is in Beethoven's 
sonatas and symphonies, and in some of Mendelssohn's 
songs, although it was not in Mendelssohn's life, but 
there are few souls sensitive and delicate enough to 
feel it. Dante felt it, and the Blue Flower blossomed 
through all their lives. They inhaled its perfume, and 
then there was no more peace, for he who once breathes 
it lives forever after in sorrow. It is a malady which 
can never be cured. I pray that none of you may ever 
breathe its fatal breath. 

And as I closed my screed, Old Blobbs looked at me 
with a look full of unutterable pain, and I knew at once 
that down under all his asperity of manner and his sar- 
casm of speech ; under all his seeming philosophical 
composure and his hearty hatred of shams, this Blue 
Flower had blossomed, and that he bad inhaled its fatal 
fragrance. He had presented to us but one side of his 
double life, and that was so honest that we could not 
but love him while we winced at his utterances of truth. 
But in that other life which he had lived within himself, 
and of which he had given us no token, but which was 
now rapidly making itself apparent, because it was his 



3o6 Old Blobbs. 

true life, was the Blue Flower, which entails only suffer- 
ing, and for which there is no remedy but death. 

And he said to us with his weak, trembling voice, so 
unlike his hearty, powerful tones of a few months ago : 
"You have spoken rightly. There is a Blue Flower, and 
I pray God you may never know its fearful influence, 
beautiful as it is. I have found that flower, but I think 
its beauty is fading now, and its perfume is dissipating, 
and that for the pain He will give pleasure, and for 
the trial He will give rest." And then he arose from 
the table and leant upon my arm and we walked out in- 
to the garden together. And then the twilight stole in 
upon us, and the darkness fell out of the heavens, and the 
stars peeped out of the sky, and all the world was veiled 
with a holy hush. We talked long together, and as we 
retired for the night, he shook me warmly by the hand 
and only said : " When you grow old you will feel the 
wonderful beauty of that line, ' He giveth His beloved 
sleep,' as you have never felt it before, for the old have 
a long, long night in which to sleep. After the battle 
comes Peace ; after the toil. Rest." 

I knew what he meant, but I could not speak of it to 
the others. 

August 15, 1869. 



MARRIAGE. 




|T was just like Fitz-Herbert to break in upon 
the conversation in his insufferable, dawdling 
manner, merely because Old Blobbs was absent 
and could not reply to him. F. H. had heard a story 
that he was about to be married, and he protested 
against it with all the indignation and power of which 
he was capable, somewhat in the following manner: 
"'Pen honor, that story isn't twue. Would be vewy 
absurd to sacwifice my fweedom. ' ' 

This was the longest speech F. H. had ever been 
known to deliver at one time, and it naturally created 
quite a sensation in the company. He seized this occa- 
sion to deliver it, as I have said before, because Old 
Blobbs was absent. The latter is confined to his room 
with a painful illness, and it would do you good to see 
the courage with which the old veteran bears his serious 
indisposition, and the calm serenity with which he 
awaits the decision of fate. I had no idea, however, of 
letting Fitz-Herbert off so easily, and, much to his as- 
tonishment, therefore, I replied to him, as he sat un- 
easily twirling his moustache, in words to the following 
effect : 

My dear Fitz-Herbert: I cannot allow your very silly 
remark to pass unnoticed, for two reasons: 

First. You would never sacrifice anything in marry- 



3o8 Expense of Marriage. 

ing any woman. The woman who marries you will do 
all the sacrificing. The hymeneal altar, in her case, 
will be eminently a sacrificial altar, and she will be the 
garlanded and orange-blossomed victim, to be carved 
up with the sacrificial knife. You have everything to 
gain — she has everything to lose. 

Second. Neither your reason, nor any other, is valid 
against marriage. I am often amused at the excuses 
men make when they approach this question. Brown 
thinks it is too expensive, and, of all silly exctises, I 
think this is the silliest. Brown is earning a good sal- 
ary, and yet Brown, at the end of the year, has no more 
money than when he commenced. He has expenses 
for cigars and meerschaums, for suppers for his bachelor 
friends, for fast horses, for baskets of champagne, for 
wagers based on trifles, for the wear and tear of clothes, 
and for a thousand and one little items, none of which 
he would or need incur in married life. Then, again, 
if Brown knew, as any milliner can tell him, how many 
seasons that same bonnet is made over; how it comes 
out bran new every spring and fall, by some of those 
mysterious alterations, of a bit of lace here or a few 
flowers there, of which only women are capable ; how 
that same dress is made over from year to year by the 
cunning hand of some dressmaker; how a piece of lace, 
which may seem costly at first, does duty in a dozen 
different ways — now serving a term on a bonnet-crown, 
now appearing on the sleeve of a basque, anon reap- 
pearing as the trimming of a dress, then laid away, only 
to appear once more in some useful and graceful man- 
ner, connected with the gear of the little folks; and if 
Brown further knew that nine women out of ten, not 



Sacrificing Preedoin. 309 

only in low life but in high life, practice this economy 
— making the old new, and serving up old dishes in new 
forms — Brown would be ashamed to offer such a flimsy 
excuse. Marriage is the essence of economy. Brown, 
alone, with two thousand a year, lays up nothing. 
Brown and a wife, with the same amount per year, 
would lay up five hundred. 

And now comes Jones, like Fitz-Herbert, with his 
twaddle of sacrificing his freedom. The plea is so 
flimsy that it is hardly worth an answer. Jones may lose 
the freedom to get drunk; the freedom to waste his 
money; the freedom to squander his earnings at the 
gaming-table ; the freedom to indulge in dissipation ; 
and the freedom to practice unlimited selfishness. And 
the sooner he loses all these freedoms, the better it 
will be for him. In the place of these losses, he gains 
the freedom to be the emperor of a little household ; to 
love a woman; to make the future President of the 
United States; to make some one happy; and to show 
a certificate that he is a Man, and has fulfilled the 
mission of a Man. 

Next comes Smith, whining that his friend Thompson 
has married unhappily, and he gets off the old story that 
marriage is a lottery in which there are a thousand blanks 
to one prize. Bosh ! It may be that his friend Thomp- 
son deliberately sought happiness in something which 
was not capable of affording it. Or it may be that he 
made money the complement of his desires and the goal 
of his ambition. In either case, he would be and ought 
to be disappointed. But it is more probable that 
Thompson, as obtains in ninety-nine out of a hundred 
of these disappointments, while carrying his head among 



3IO The Lottery of Marriage, 

the stars, stumbled over the stone at his feet, which he 
would have seen if he had had his head where it ought 
to have been. Thompson, like scores of others, in- 
dulged in a love which smacked both of the romance 
and the theatre — made it in a style and clothed it with 
sentiments which have no more to do with common life 
than the integral calculus has to do with everlasting sal- 
vation, and in his terrific flights of the imagination, 
soared to heights occupied by angels and cherubim, and 
other creatures who have nothing in common with hu- 
man life. He assumed without question that his inamo- 
rata was an angel, and, while in his amorous embryo, 
would have throttled you if you had suggested that he 
might have been mistaken. Of course, when he had 
chipped off his shell, got his eyes open, and stepped out 
into the open air of common sense, he saw his mistake. 
Women are not angels at all, although it may be ungal- 
lant to say so. For certain romantic purposes, and by 
a sort of poetical license, we call them such. They 
don't believe they are angels themselves; but they ac- 
cept the assurance from their lovers, just as the lover ac- 
cepts the assurance from his mistress that he is a hero, 
both good and noble, when he is nothing but plain 
Tompkins. Now, Thompson, before he married his 
wife, was convinced that she was an angel, and would 
have considered it a serious defect if you, or any one else 
had imputed human nature as one of her characteristics. 
If he had married Mrs. Thompson as a woman with a 
human nature, subject to diseases, old age, sulleness, 
peevish fits, and other infirmities to which flesh is heir, 
possessed of the same bad qualities, and capable of show- 
ing just as many good qualities, he would have been a 



Single Incompleteness. 311 

happy man, and by combining an even temper with a 
sensible judgment, he never would have had any trouble. 
It might as well be settled now as at any time that there 
are no angels in this world. Angels dwell in quite an- 
other place, and have nothing to do whatever with mar- 
riage, their time being mainly spent in playing harps, 
and, if "Gates Ajar" be true, pianos, fiddles, and other 
musical instruments, and in eating lotus, which is of a 
better quality up there than that which grows on the 
Nile. The other class of angels, if the iron-clad the- 
ology be true, is down below, engaged in the anthra- 
cite coal and brimstone business; but there is no record 
of any on earth. If Thompson had married a woman 
instead of a creature whom, without any reason, he sup- 
posed to be an angel, he would have been a happy man. 
It is, therefore, his own fault that he is not happy. And 
it is the fault of the majority of men who are not happy. 

Now, also, on general principles, I contend that it is 
a man's duty to be married. Man is not complete when 
single. He is all head without any heart. Man has his 
work, woman has hers, and no life-work is complete 
-which is not a union of the two. 

Man has the work of the intellect to perform ; woman 
the work of the affections. If man does his work alone, 
it is cold, hard, selfish and one-sided. 

Man represents brute strength; woman represents 
beauty. If man stands alone, not clothing his strength 
with beauty, he occupies exactly the position of the 
horse and the ox. 

Man, to sum up, is the head ; woman, the heart. 
United, they are perfect; single, they are simply mon- 
strosities. They were made to go together. 



312 Perpetuation. 

And, again, my dear Fitz-Herbert, did you ever hap- 
pen to think that you were born in marriage? That 
without marriage the world would have been deprived 
of your inestimable entity, which, undoubtedly, is good 
for something, although, at this present moment, I am 
not prepared to say what ? I contend, therefore, that if 
you persistently choose to remain single you insult the 
condition in which you were born, and place yourself in 
the attitude of the foolish Euripides, who always lament- 
ed that he had not been produced by some other agency 
than that of a mother. 

Again, Fitz-Herbert, did you ever stop to think that 
it is the duty, and equally the pleasure, of man to per- 
petuate himself? And that, if, by refusing to marry, 
you do not joerpetuate yourself, you tacitly acknowledge 
you are not worth perpetuating ? I will not stop here to 
explain to you the great beauty and blessing of children, 
or to point out how much better and brighter the 
world is for their presence, but I will only state the 
point in its abstract form — that if you do not marry 
some woman, and issue a little blue-and-gold-edition of 
yourself, and then another edition revised and corrected, • 
and so on ad infinitum or ad libitum, you simply say to 
the world, " I am an incapable and good-for-nothing, not 
worth perpetuating." This point is worth such atten- 
tion as you can spare from your back hair and neck-tie ; 
and I advise you whenever you have time enough to put 
your whole mind upon it, to astonish your mind by do- 
ing so. 

Now, as my last general principle — or, as Parson 
Creamcheese would say, eighthly and lastly — I assume 
that God Almighty has pointed out this duty of mar- 



Duality 3 1 3 

riage, and this fact that you are incomplete when single, 
in every conceivable manner. The whole of Nature is 
one grand system of marriage, and without it, Nature 
could not exist for a single minute. Although the ani- 
mals cannot feel the influence of love, because they are 
bereft of sentiment, still instinct teaches them they are 
happiest in pairs, and compels them to recognize the 
dual principle. You never saw a flower in your life 
which was not the personification of the marriage prin- 
ciple, the stamens playing the part of a woman, and the 
pistil that of a man, although you should not follow the 
botanical analogy too literally, by taking more than one 
stamen. All ideas, all beauty, all feelings, all effects in 
the great world of nature and humanity depend for their 
existence upon this dual principle, which only takes 
shape and exerts influence in the form of marriage. 
Now, you see, my dear Fitz-Herbert, it does not look 
well in you to set yourself against the inevitable ten- 
dency of nature and humanity and the fixed purpose of 
the Creator, by remaining single, merely because you 
think you are going to "sacwifice your fweedom." As 
I said before, it is all bosh. 

This is a plain statement of the facts in the premises, 
and now I am going to suggest a remedy for the wretch- 
edness which is consequent upon their violation and a 
penalty for their violator. 

The penalty does not apply to women, for there is not 
a woman in the world who would not marry if she had a 
chance. 

In fixing this penalty, it is necessary to assume the 
indisputable fact that for every man in the world there 
is a woman somewhere waiting and waiting anxiously. 



314 ^ Woman Waitmg. 

She may be in the same house with you, in the same 
neighborhood, or the same city, or she may be in a dis- 
tant quarter of the globe. You may not meet her this 
year or next year, but, nevertheless, Fitz-Herbert, there 
is a woman waiting for you somewhere, who wants to 
be married to you, to be loved by you, to be fed by you, 
to have you take her to the opera and the concerts, and 
to have you pay her milliner and dressmaker. In return, 
she will be your best friend, will make a man out of 
you, will suffer for you, never cease to love you, and, if 
necessary, die for you. Now, it is your duty to set 
about and find that woman, and go to work loving and 
feeding her, and paying her bills without grumbling, 
because all you can do for her will not be worth men- 
tion by the side of that wonderful love she will bestow 
on you — the same love which your father had for your 
mother. You probably won't have to look long or far 
for her. You will be astonished at the ease with which 
you will find her, if you commence looking for her in 
earnest. She must be supported by some one. If you 
don't support her, then some other man must be taxed 
to do it, and thus the burden falls upon those who 
already have wives. This, of course, is unfair. No 
man should be compelled to take care of more than one 
woman. 

This is your plain duty, and my penalty to be im- 
posed upon those who won't perform it is simply levy- 
ing of a tax. Granted that there is a woman for every 
man, ready to be supported by that man, then I pro- 
pose to compel that man to support that woman, 
whether he will marry that woman or not. I would do 
nothing rashly. I would give him a lee-way for choice 



The Tax. 315 

until he was thirty years of age. If he didn't make a 
choice in thirty years, I should take it for granted that 
he didn't intend to at all, and I should then commence 
the operation of my tax levy. At the age of thirty, I 
should impose a yearly tax, equivalent to a woman's 
yearly legitimate expenses; at the age of thirty-five, an 
equivalent for a woman and two children ; at forty, an 
equivalent for a woman and four children ; at forty-five, 
an equivalent for a woman and six children. If the 
man were sickly, or absent any considerable length of 
time, the number of children might be reduced one-half. 
After the age of forty-five, the juvenile tax might cease 
increasing. At the age of fifty, however, I would im- 
pose a special tax upon him as a general fund for the 
support of aged and decayed spinsters. At the age of 
sixty, he should be compelled to contribute a special 
sum to maintain Old Ladies' Homes. And when "he 
died, he should be compelled to bequeathe a portion of 
his property to building orphan asylums, and the balance 
should go towards the maintenance of the public schools. 
If, in addition to his refusal to marry a woman, he 
should be a confirmed woman-hater, then I would force 
him to equalize male and female wages by paying the 
difference to sewing girls, factory girls and female clerks 
in our dry goods stores, who do a man's work for a wo- 
man's stipend. 

You see this is perfectly fair. Not only would every 
woman be properly provided for, but married men 
would be relieved from the onerous burden of support- 
ing more than one woman, Avhich is improper, but these 
old bachelors who are of no account would be turned 
to a good use by contributing to the support of spin- 



■316 Marriage Increasing. 

sters, old women and little children. Then, when they 
got to the gate of Heaven, they could at least have their 
tax-receipts, to show that their punishment might be 
mitigated, and that a few of the thousand years of pur- 
gatory on the banks of the Styx might be omitted. 

I trust, Fitz-Herbert, that you coincide with my views, 
or, at least, that you will give them some attention. 
F. H. had evidently never looked at the subject in this 
light, for he seemed quite bewildered, and twirled his 
moustache very vigorously, especially when Mignon and 
Celeste and Aurelia all chimed in with me, and said I 
was quite right. 

August 21, 1869. 



I am glad to notice that my letter of two Sundays 
ago, upon the subject of marriage, has had such good 
effects. During the past week, the number of marriages 
has trebled, and even quadrupled, in this city. To be 
sure, the number of divorces has kept even pace, and, 
for every pair which has come boldly up to the altar and 
joined hands in eternal friendship, another pair has 
severed the bond in twain and parted company, like two 
ships which meet upon the ocean, hold converse for a 
little minute, and then set sail for the different horizons. 
The Clown in Twelfth Night spoke more wisely than he 
knew, when he said that many a good hanging prevent- 
ed many a bad marriage. From the ease with which 
divorces are now obtained, it seems to me a few good 
hangings would have a healthy influence upon this mat- 
ter of marriage, and would make that declaration of the 
minister's, upon which he dwells with such solemn 



Anonyina. 317 

unction, ''What God hath joined, let not man put 
asunder," savor less of the ridiculous. 

And all this reminds me of several letters I have 
received during the past two weeks, taking issue with 
me upon one small remark contained in my letter. 
"Ferniania," "Ada," "Kitty," and a half a dozen 
other anonyma, are highly indignant that I should have 
said "Any woman who has a chance will get married." 

I expected to be overwhelmed with an avalanche of 
female indignation when I wrote that sentence. I wrote 
it with a realizing sense of the wrath to come. 

The wrath has come, and I find at least a dozen female 
gauntlets on the floor before me which I am expected to 
take up. 

I confess I do not like anonymous gauntlets. I should 
like to know the antecedents of some of them before I 
accept the wager and do battle for my proposition. ' 

In the first place, I would like to know how many of 
these pretty Amazons have had a chance to get mar- 
ried, and if they had a chance, then I want to know 
why they didn't get married. I have no more sympathy 
for a woman who won't get married than I have for a 
man. She is just as much a jug without a handle or a 
bow without the arrow as the man is. The very first 
record we have of the very first woman that ever lived, 
after she got her ^g-\^dS panier made, is of her marriage 
to Adam, and the next thing of any consequence is the 
birth of the rapscallion Cain, and the good little boy 
Abel. It is just as much the woman's duty to get mar- 
ried as the man's. 

Good heavens ! my dear Madame, or my dear Made- 
moiselle, what would you have done, if your parents 



3 1 8 Chances. 

hadn't got married ? Would you have written me that 
indignant letter ? Would you ever have gone to see 
Enoch Arden ? Would you have ever known the Para- 
dise of new fall hats and George Elliot's last new book? 

I should say not. 

At least it strikes me that way upon a mere glance. 

Then wherein are you any better than your parents ? 
I would like to be assured, therefore, that you have 
had a chance to get married, and why you refused the 
chance, before I answer you. 

Of course I expect a very torrent of affirmation. A 
woman had better be dead than never to have had a 
chance. I would rather face a Nubian lion than tell a 
woman to her face that she had never had an oppor- 
tunity to get married. Do not the dear, delightful old 
women, sitting in their arm - chairs, grow garrulous 
over their tea, and tell their grand-daughters of the 
numberless chances they had when they were young and 
their faces were smooth and the wrinkles and crows-feet 
had not been written upon their foreheads by the im- 
placable Time ? Do not mature married ladies, who 
have just gone round the corner, and are beginning to 
feel just the slightest touch in the world of neuralgia, 
now and then delight to give their husbands a realizing 
sense of their inferiority, by recalling the number of 
chances they have had and how they might have done 
better here and lived easier there ? Do not young 
ladies in les confidences with their numerous bosom 
friends — confidences which are as mysterious as a sum 
in simple addition and as eternal as the life of a sand-fly 
— divulge to each other the chances they have had, and 
the prospects for chances ahead, with the stereotyped 



Chances. 319 

exactions of promises never to tell, upon penalty of 
immediate severance of the ties which bind, etc. ? Do 
not the delightful little creatures from five to ten dis- 
play the first sign of womanhood in getting up flirtations 
with the little boy in the next house, and writing the 
most astonishing little notes to the effect that 

' If you love me as I love you, 
No knife shall cut our loves in two.' 

etc., etc. ? 

This story of chances is an old, old story. It is a 
failing of human nature. There isn't a young woman 
in the world who has been gazed at admiringly by a 
young man, but has imagination strong enough to con- 
vert that look into a chance. That story won't do. I 
want something more definite. 

In the second place, I would like to know if any of 
my correspondents who have had so many chances 
improved one of them and got married ? If so, I would 
like again to know, what in the world you are complain- 
ing of? Is it quite complimentary to your other half, 
who buys your bonnets, provides your beefsteaks, pays 
your washerwoman, and looks after the pocket-book 
side of your marital contract ? With that estimable 
man in your eye — and I should hate to deny in your 
presence, Madame, that he was not estimable — how can 
you have the assurance to deny that there are women 
who would marry, if they had the chance? Are the 
grapes which grow on your vines soured? Has the 
honeymoon grown bitter in its waxings and wanings ? 
Have you put your finger in the fire and been burned ? 

I hope not, but it looks so, my dear — it looks so. 

I have a letter from still another correspondent — 



320 One- Idea Women. 

written in a savage, vinegary sort of chirography — who 
lugs in that stale crowd, Anna Dickinson, Miss An- 
thony, etc., to prove that women will not always marry 
when they have a chance. I do not recognize anything 
womanly in these clamorous individuals bawling from 
stumps, and crying themselves hoarse for rights which 
any of them can have if they have sense enough to take 
them. If a woman will deliberately unsex herself, she 
has no right to expect chances. If she ever, by some 
mysterious dispensation of Divine Providence, gets a 
chance, it is kindness to the dumb brute who gave her 
the chance, when she refuses it. The good God, when 
He established the relation of the sexes, never intended 
that man should ally himself to a woman with ice-water 
in her veins and a head full of syllogisms. He might 
as well marry a treatise on metaphysics and have done 
with it. I am sick of this crowd of one-idea women 
who are invariably trotted out when it is necessary to do 
or say anything. They are exceptions to all rules, and 
prove nothing. A cow with five legs and a hen with no 
tail furnish no data from which to judge of the gen- 
eral family of cows and hens. 

It is rather curious that nearly all my correspondents 
hurl my Maiden Aunt in my face to prove that I am 
wrong in asserting that every woman would marry if 
she had a chance. The Maiden Aunt ^/V/have a chance, 
and would have accepted the chance, had not Death 
stepped in and taken it away from her. She could not 
love twice, and so she preferred to wait until she could 
be united to him eternally. It would have been the 
crowning glory of her life, if she could have married 
him for whom she wore the forget-me-not so long, and 



Fate. 321 

her life therein would have been more perfect than it 
was. She was ready to marry when she had the chance, 
but Fate ordered it otherwise, and she bowed her head 
and submitted to the decree which forbade the chance, 
but could not forbid the love. And they who were 
divided in life were united in death, and I know are 
quite happy now. 

September 4, 1869. 




23 



OLD BLOBBS REDIVIVUS. 




THINK you never saw a happier little family 
circle than gathered about the breakfast table 
this morning. The dark cloud which has hov- 
ered over us so long, casting its shadow over all the 
household, has dissipated, and behind it we saw that the 
sun was still shining, although we faint hearts had begun 
to believe that we should never sit in the sunshine again. 
Old Blobbs has past the crisis and weathered the 
storm. The staunch old man has baffled pallida moj's 
by resolutely contesting every inch with him. For a 
day he hovered on the brink of the chasm between the 
two worlds, but there was no trace of terror, or even of 
impatience, in his serene face. I think he was so near 
to Heaven that gleams of its light irradiated him, for I 
never saw such a rapt face before. I think that he 
heard the sound of the harps coming faintly to him, as 
we sometimes hear music coming over the water in the 
hush of night, for now and then he would close his eyes 
and listen very attentively, seeming to forget us who 
were standing around, fearing that at any moment he 
might see the gate of Paradise and pass through, leaving 
us disconsolate on this side. And I know, by a quick 
glow of recognition and a smile of ineffable pleasure, 



The Recovery. 323 

which once lit up his face, that he saw the Maiden Aunt, 
and a little child who once left us, somewhere in that 
land so far from us, but so near to him, for he raised his 
thin white hand as if he would grasp the hand of 
another. We could not speak to him. In that solemn 
time we dared not. The doctor sat upon the bedside 
and watched him with anxious face. Mignon, in the 
intensity of her grief, sat with her face buried in her 
hands. She had placed the Hided forget-me-not, which 
the Maiden Aunt sent to her as her dying souvenir, in 
Blobbs' hand, thinking, perhaps, that he might take it 
to her, as they do not grow where she is, for memory 
There is eternal. 

It was growing towards sunset, and through the inter- 
lacing leaves of the ivy which covers the window, a 
golden shaft of sunlight shot into the room and fell 
upon the bed. It caught Old Blobbs' eye. He faintly 
smiled, turned his head away, and closed his eyes. The 
doctor lightly felt the pulse and motioned us to be silent. 
In a few minutes, the doctor beckoned us to retire to 
another room, and then said to us : " Your friend is 
sleeping. He has passed the crisis and will be spared 
to you. It is only necessary that he should be kept 
quiet." 

On the day before the crisis. Parson Primrose called 
to see Old Blobbs in the performance of official duty, 
and undoubtedly actuated by a sincere desire to smooth 
his pathway into the Valley of the Shadow. There was 
just the faintest expression of impatience upon Blobbs' 
face, when he saw him enter. Primrose had assumed a 
conventional, business-like look of grief, not unmixed 
with a slight anxiety, as if he were not at all certain 



324 Primrose. 

that Blobbs' pathway needed any smoothing. And I 
knew that Blobbs was convinced how utterly impotent 
Primrose was to afford him any consolation or shed any 
light upon the future. 

In a dry, formalistic way, Primrose asked: "My 
dear brother, are you prepared for the great change!" 

I never shall forget Blobbs' look of profound aston- 
ishment as he replied: "Yes, sir! Certainly. I have 
always been prepared for this from my boyhood up. I 
supposed it was a man's first duty to have his household 
always in order for such changes — most of all, the com- 
mon change which may come any minute. Why, of 
course, sir, I am prepared, and hope I shall meet the 
change like a gentleman." 

Primrose added: "And have you prepared yourself 
for this great change by attendance upon divine wor- 
ship?" 

"Yes, sir," replied Old Blobbs. "I may say to you, 
however, as we had better understand each other, that 
I have not always deemed it important to attend divine 
worship within four walls, I have been rather op- 
pressed, sir, by this gregarious form of worship, and 
have not always received satisfaction or consolation 
from the gentlemen of your cloth — and this, with all 
respect, sir. I imagine that I have been rather exact- 
ing, and expected to find a guide, rather than a com- 
panion who knew no more of the way than myself In 
such cases, I always found that I got much nearer the 
Great Father by going out into Nature, the house which 
He built, and by loving my fellow-man and all the forms 
of life which He has created, even down to the insects. 
There has always, I may say, sir, been more satisfaction 



Blobbs' Belief. 325 

to me in this warm, active love than in that affection 
Avhich has been regulated by rules and bounded by 
dogmas. ' ' 

"Then you have never settled upon any creed or 
form of belief," said Primrose. 

Blobbs' face again wore an impatient look, as he re- 
plied: "Belief with me, sir, has been instinctive. It 
never had any prescribed form, and never needed de- 
fining by any ritual. I have never troubled myself much 
about any creed, as I have never seen any record of 
creeds where I may soon go. I do not expect, if I had 
a creed, that it would be anything but an impediment 
to me in crossing the river. If I got safely over with 
it, I am confident, sir, that St. Peter would make me 
leave it outside the gate, as something for which they 
had no use inside." 

"Then, you have believed in no doctrine, and be- 
longed to no church, my dear friend?" said Primrose. 

"You mistake me, sir," said Blobbs, rather impa- 
tiently. "I have always believed in charity, which is 
greater than faith or hope, and in the sublime words 
which Christ, and Confucius before Christ, uttered : 
' Do unto others as you would that they should do unto 
you.' I have always belonged to the great church of 
humanity, which, I think, sir, in ages to come, will be 
the church of mankind ' ' 

"When the millenium comes, and man is perfect?" 
interposed Primrose. 

"No, sir!" replied Blobbs, emphatically. "I look 
for no millenium of perfection. Man can never fully 
develop, if this world shall stand for millions of ages 
yet. To assume that, would be to deny the principle 



326 Blobbs' Belief. 

of infinity which is in him. The perfect development 
can never be attained except in eternity. We must be 
freed from this frail envelope of the body before the 
soul can rise, untrammelled. 

" Upon what, then, if you have no doctrine, or 
creed, or church, do you depend for your salvation?" 
said Primrose. 

"Upon the love of our common Father," rej^lied 
Blobbs. " He has carried me, sir, in the hollow of His 
hand since childhood, and has never done me harm. I 
am not afraid now, sir, to trust myself to Him, confi- 
dent that He knows better than I what is best for me, 
and that He will do what is best. I think that He will 
solve all these mysteries, so that what is dark to my fee- 
ble comprehension will become quite light. I am wil- 
ling, sir, to trust myself to Him, and, sir, if you can 
throw any light upon the place to which I am going, I 
shall be very grateful to receive it. As to the manner 
of going, I am quite willing to leave that to Him who 
knows more than I." 

Primrose, after a iQ\N generalities, took his leave, sat- 
isfied that at least he had done his duty, but Old Blobbs 
turned his face to the wall with a feeble smile and a 
shake of the head. 

I think Blobbs was fully convinced, as well as the rest 
of us, that he should not live long, for on that same day 
he handed me his diary, which he desired me to keep. 
He has since that time expressed his willingness to have 
me use what I please of it. On looking it over, I found 
some thoughts which perhaps may interest you. 

In one place he says : 

"I think I have but one regret in leaving this world. 



B I abbs' Diary. 327 

When I look into the past and see what is doing, I 
would like to live into the future some centuries, to see 
what a magnificent world this will be." 

Again he says : 

"Every man carries in his breast an aspiration and a 
skeleton. The one is a yearning for an ideal which is 
never realized here. He will never find it, be his search 
ever so long or so faithful. It must always end in the 
fate of the Prince who sought the fountain of perpetual 
youth, and the alchemists who wasted their lives and 
energies looking for the philosopher's stone. And yet 
it seems to me this unattainable ideal is one of the surest 
proofs of immortality. The other is the reverse of the 
ideal — a fearful secret — a chained tiger — a terrible power. 
Sometimes it assumes only the form of a melancholy. 
Sometimes of a despair which kills." 

Again : 

"The keen, earnest love of Nature always involves 
the warmer love of man as the noblest type of Nature, 
and yet the love of Nature is the compensation for the 
loss of man. When all men forget you — when the 
bright hues with which you have invested the ideal of 
the soul fade like a morning mist — when the heart in its 
lowest depths of despair finds only artificial instead of 
real men, when you even despair of humanity — vivifying 
Nature remains a faithful friend, and brings compensa- 
tion in her flowers and birds, her mountains and catar- 
acts. 

Again : 

" Sympathy with anything that is beautiful can never 
be completely exercised when you are alone. It must 
find expression, and there must be the presence of 



328 B I abbs' Diaiy. 

another who shall be the recipient of that expression. 
Worship demands isolation, which begets reverence. 
Sympathy demands the presence of another, and begets 
friendship or love, according to the nature of the object 
and the companion. Either in the presence of nature, 
which inspires friendship, or of music and some forms 
of art, which inspire love, the presence of the second 
person is essential to complete syinpathy ; and he who 
has sought either love or friendship, and lost both, is 
richer than he who has never sought either." 

Blobbs' diary contains also some pretty severe strict- 
ures, which I might be tempted to give you were it not 
for the fact that he will now soon be with us again and 
speak for himself. I saw him this morning, and he is 
quite like himself again. He took me by the hand and 
said: "Well, my dear boy, they say the old ship is 
going to weather the storm." 

I congratulated him upon his improvement, and he 
added : 

"I thought we were getting into the haven and com- 
ing to anchor. But the voyage isn't quite over yet, so 
we must clear away the decks, crowd on all sail and out 
again into the blue waters, with the rest of our little 
fleet, and trust all to the good Pilot at the helm, Who 
knows what is best, after all." 

August 28, 1869. 



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^ rv^//' re HELL. 




F you should ask me why I went to Hell, I do 
do not know that I could answer you. I only 
know that I have often wanted to go there. I 
have more than once envied Swedenborg, who could go 
in a jiffy where he pleased, and the rat who lived in a 

well, and when he died went you know where. If 

you do not know, I can tell you that the place rhymes 
with well. 

I only know that I went there and came back safe and 
unsinged, and with no smell of fire in my garments, 
although I saw and talked with him who is never men- 
tioned in polite comjmny, strange to say, considering 
that he is the politest person that I ever met. 

It may have been owing to the fact that, just before I 
went to sleep, I was thinking of these coming fall days ; 
of the maple boughs which will soon be blazing with 
the red and scarlet flames of the frost; of the smoky 
haze which will soon hide the hill-sides ; of the sumachs 
and vines which will soon sheet the road-sides with 
flame. It may have been this smoke and fire which sent 
me there, for the most of us form no other idea of that 
place, under the heavens, except in the light of brim- 
stone, sulphur, anthracite coal, lava, molten iron, and 

23 



330 On the Way. 

other pleasant compounds, into which we are to be im- 
mersed forever and a day, to roast, boil, and bake, and 
yet never get cooked. 

But, as I said before, I have been to Hell and got 
back safely, and I should be unfaithful to my post as a 
public benefactor, and my duties as a journalistic chron- 
icler, did I not tell you what I saw. 

You may remember that some months ago I told you 
of my trip to Heaven. My route to the other place was 
partially the same. I passed through our system of 
stars and planets, dodged the comets as before, found 
that the Man in the Moon was ill from the effects of the 
recent eclipse, saw the Archer-road milkmen still run- 
ning from the stump-tail cows in the Milky Way, passed 
from planet to planet, and from galaxy to galaxy into 
other systems, and at last reached the sea of golden 
light, of which I told you before — the sea of Immor- 
tality. Between this and the crystal sea above it, how- - 
ever, I diverged, and my way led through rifts of dark 
leaden clouds, across blank moors, which were illumined 
by a lurid light which seemed to come from no source. 
There were strange whisperings in the air. Dark- 
winged birds now and then flitted by me, and ever and 
anon I could hear a sullen roar in the distance, which 
seemed to come from the flow of a river. Thus, on 
over the blank moors, until my way led to a hill-side, 
at the foot of which I was stopped by one of Lucifer's 
officials, who briefly examined me, and then said I was 
qualified to proceed. 

I proceeded up the hill, and at the top I looked down 
to a river — the River of Lethe — flowing sluggishly along 
through a valley. Across this river I could see a coun- 



The Ferry. 331 

try of vast extent, which was very thickly peopled. 1 
Avent down the hill-side, and came to the river, and 
there I found an old ferryman and his boat waiting to 
convey me over the dark flood. He asked me for the 
o\>olus with which to pay toll across the river, but, 
unfortunately, I hadn't a cent with me. He then 
asked, rather impatiently, if my friends were so poor 
when I died that they couldn't afford to put an obolus 
in the coffin with me. I smilingly replied that I wasn't 
aware I had ever died, whereat he answered, very seri- 
ously, that he had carried a great many dead men 
across, but never any dead-heads. I tried to coax the 
old man into giving me a ride gratis, but he obstinately 
refused, saying that only the disembodied were allowed 
to cross, and that if he took me over he would catch 
the 

"Just the man I Avant to see," said I. "If I cannot 
go to him, except as a blessed defunct, will you have 
the goodness to hand my card to him, and say that I 
come from Chicago?" 

The old man took the card, and, after taking on 
board two or three people whom I used to know, and 
supposed were saints, he paddled across and soon re- 
turned, saying that the Devil had sent his compliments 
and was willing to see me. He also sent word that he 
was desirous of sending back by me his thanks to Chi- 
cago, which was just now conferring a great favor upon 
him in the way of business. 

I accordingly jumped into the boat. The old man 
had to work very hard in getting me over. The spirits 
which he was accustomed to carry weigh nothing and 
pack close, but I was quite substantial. 



332 The Dezdl. 

In my passage across the river I observed that it was 
full of robes, mitres, crosiers, censers, creeds, canons, 
and other articles floating along, and I asked the old 
man the cause of it. He simply replied that he didn't 
know what they were. He believed they were some 
sort of stuff wliich some people brought along with them 
and had to throw away because nobody used them here 
or in the other place. When we had reached the other 
shore I landed, and the old man informed me I was in 
Hell, and would find the Devil a short distance away. 
I found him without difficulty. As soon as he had 
settled a little dispute between some Board of Trade 
men who had been getting up a corner, — which he de- 
clared was too disgraceful even for his country, — he 
turned to me and bade me welcome. 

I must acknowledge that I was disappointed in his 
appearance. He was a very polite, affable person, and, 
apparently, a perfect gentleman. There were certainly 
no claws upon his fingers. His feet were not cloven. 
There were no horns upon his head. Neither did I, 
after a rather secret and anxious scrutiny, discover any 
indications of a tail. He greeted me as if he knew me 
well, and at once put me at ease with himself. I made 
bold to congratulate him upon his personal appearance, 
whereat he smiled and said: "Yes, the old story — 
horns, hoofs and tail, I suppose. I know it is the cus- 
tom for you people on that little planet, which is called, 
I think, the Earth, when you wish to represent anything 
infamous or abominable, to paint the Devil, and you 
generally paint him very black. Now we know a thing 
or two here, and we always return the compliment, for 
when we wish to represent anything infamous or abom- 



Hell -Fire. -^^-i,?) 

inable we paint Man in his natural colors. I assure you 
sir, I am not so black as they paint me. Why, sir, I 
have been obliged to blush more than once at the crimes 
which some men have committed who come here for 
cleansing." 

I acknowledged the justness of his remarks and then, 
anxious to settle a suspicion which had been troubling 
me, I asked him where the fire was. He smiled again, 
and said : 

"Fire? It is all round you. Hell-fire is by no means 
a falsehood. Look at these people. They have brought 
all their passions with them. We cannot manufac- 
ture a fire which can burn and consume like the fires 
of passion in man's breast. We know of no hell so ter- 
rible as the hell in a man's bosom. Let me tell you 
there isn't a man or woman on your Earth without a 
tiger chained in his breast. Let him but once unloose 
the beast and hell has broken loose in himself. These 
tides of passion never ebb. They are resistless in their 
flow, and they burn and kill, as they flow, like a stream 
of molten lava running down the side of the volcano 
into the fertile plains. That man there, who killed his 
brother is none the less a murderer now, only that his 
passion to kill is intensified without the means of its 
gratification ; and you will notice that he carries the 
skeleton of that brother tied to him, from which he can- 
not escape. Do you think fire would be any such pun- 
ishment to him? That miser, who was eaten up with 
avarice in his mortal life, is doubly the miser now, only 
the gains which he hoards are forever swept from him. 
So with them all. They bring their passions with them 
here only to have them intensified, to have their capaci- 



334 Tour of Observation. 

ties for passion correspondingly increased, and never to 
have the opportunities of gratifying them. That is the 
kind of hell-fire we have here, and it burns until the 
victim is burnt out, and purified, and regenerated, and 
rendered capable of receiving pure enjoyment. We 
who are placed in charge of them have no sympathy 
with them, for we have no passions. We have living 
brains, but dead hearts. 

"And yet," I remarked, " many of these people seem 
to be very quiet and calm. They do not look as if they 
were troubled at all by passions." 

"There is where you make a great mistake," the 
Devil replied. " Appearances are as deceitful here as 
they are on Earth. Outward quietness is no sign of in- 
ward peace. The ocean, which is in continual war with 
the elements, lashing its surface into ungovernable fury, 
is secret and silent in its depth, while some hidden 
lake in the mountains, or some pool in the valleys, which 
never feels the ocean storm blowing over its surface, 
yet mirrors every storm-cloud in its breast and is dis- 
turbed in its depths by violent currents. Appearances 
are deceitful, even here, you see." 

The Devil then offered to show me about his do- 
minions, and we trudged along together. I was sur-- 
prised to find so many people there I had known on 
Earth and supposed were saints ; men whom I had 
known with serene faces, and upturned eyes, and saint- 
ly expressions, who were all the time deprecating the 
sinfulness of Earth ; who held up their hands in holy 
horror at pleasures and snuffed evil in every wind that 
blew ; and among them some whose names had been 
blown abroad loud and long, and who had mounted 



Punishments. 335 

lipon the top of popular opinion by means of the step- 
ladders of piety. The Devil noticed my surprise and 
said : " Yes ! we have a good many of that sort. They 
are all entered on the books as hypocrites. One of our 
choicest vintages, which we serve on State occasions, is 
their tears bottled up. They are much superior in flavor 
to the tears of the crocodile." 

He took me further on and showed me the men who 
had been cruel to animals, each of whom was tormented 
by the animals he had tormented in life. Brutal cart- 
men, who had lashed their horses to death, were in 
harness, and the horses were lashing them. In one 
place, there was an entire horse-railroad company draw- 
ing overloaded cars. A man who was cruel to his dog 
was pursued and constantly bitten by a howling pack of 
them. Another, who had wantonly killed a little bird, 
was chained to a rock, like Prometheus, and vukures 
were forever pecking at him. Nero, who took delight 
in killing flies, was forever stung by swarms of insects. 
This one, who had been cruel to his ox, was harnessed 
to a plow, and the ox was goading him along. That one, 
who had been unnecessarily cruel to a fish, was forever 
swimming in bottomless waters, pursued by sharks. 
Thus each was punished in kind, and cruelty to the 
dumb beast brought its own compensation. Whereat I 
rejoiced, and quietly pressed the hand of the Devil in 
token of satisfaction. 

And he said to me: ''Even we devils, bad as we are 
supposed to be, hardly know a crime so wicked as the 
crime of cruelty to the animal, from man down to the 
insect. We have no worse punishments than that for vi- 
olations of the law of kindness, which is the law of love." 



336 Punishments. 

We wandered on, and found several other classes of 
persons, each of whom was punished in some unique 
manner. There were pot-house politicians by the mul- 
titude, who were chasing after offices which constantly 
eluded their grasp just as they thought they had them. 
There was an army of street-corner organ-grinders con- 
demned to wander for a term of years and never to 
cease grinding "Captain Jinks," Avhile the man who 
wrote "Captain Jinks" was condemned to follow them 
and listen to it as long as they played it. There was a 
large multitude of people from Cincinnati, condemned 
to sit for a thousand years upon a bank of a river and 
read the daily papers of Chicago. There was a crowd 
of tradesmen, who cheated with false Aveights, condemn- 
ed to trudge for centuries with their weights liung about 
their necks; and others, who mixed sand with sugar, 
and turmeric with butter, and sold other villainous com- 
pounds for the genuine article, who were forced to eat 
their own abominable adulterations incessantly. And 
thus we went on until we came to a spot where there 
was a fearful chattering and screaming. The Devil 
stopped his ears as we approached, and I immediately 
discovered a crowd of able-bodied, stout-armed women 
chasing a piece of paper which was fluttering through 
the air. Every time that they were on the point of 
seizing it, a puff of wind would blow it away again. 
And on the paper was written the single word "Ballot." 
I smiled as I recognized some of them. 

Thus we went on, but it was everywhere the same 
story. Those who had bad passions on Earth brought 
their bad passions along with them, and made their own 
hells. Those who were foolish on Earth were foolish 



The DcviPs Advice. t^2)1 

here, and everyone was punished in kind. Each person 
had his crime fastened upon him, and whatever chaUce 
lie had forced others to drink was now commended to 
,his own lips. 

And as we retraced our steps, I asked the Devil if 
there was no cessation from these punishments, and he 
answered: "Love will finally triumph at last, for it is 
the law of laws, both on the Earth and in the Heavens." 

We again reached the River Lethe, and I asked him 
what word he wished to send to Earth. He smiled, as 
he answered: "Nothing special. My business is 
doing well there, and I have no fault to find with your 
representation. The supply quite exceeds the demand. ' ' 

He paused a minute, and said : "And yet I think I 
might send some advice by you. A great many good 
souls upon Earth are troubled about the meaning of life. 
There was one poor fool named Dr. Faust, who once 
sold himself to me, in order to get at the meaning of 
the riddle. Tell them that any one who can appreciate 
the littleness of life and not lose his own dignity has 
come near enough to solving the problem. Tell them, 
also, to realize, if they can, that their condition is 
human, and that, whenever they try to ape the divine, 
they are opposing the eternal fitness of things. The 
best happiness, and glory, and virtue they can reach is 
in being men, and loving their fellow-men. If they 
become angels on Earth, they have nothing left to do 
when they get up there. That old poet whom you are 
accustomed to style a heathen was just right when he 
said: "I am human, and I deem nothing human a 
stranger to me.' " 

"I promised the Devil I would take his message to 



338 Back Again. 

Earth, and then said ; "I have but one more question 
to ask." 

" What is that?" he replied. 

" Do editors come here often ?" 

" No ! they have quite enough of this place where 
they are." 

I thanked him from my heart of hearts, and bade 
him good-bye as one not utterly bereft of comfort and 
consolation. 

As the old ferryman landed I noticed that his boat 
was full of stock speculators, and that the Devil looked 
utterly disgusted when they stepped into his dominions. 

We passed over the river in silence. I climbed the 
hill and crossed the blank moors, passed through the 
golden sea again, and then on through the systems until 
I reached Earth and awaked. 

It may be barely possible that a quarter section of 
liot mince pie had something to do with this visit. 

S.-islfiiilxr li), 18(59. 




r ENVOI. 




T is only a few brief lines, and I must say good- 
bye to the reader, and the book closes. You 
and I have kept company together through 
nearly three years of pleasant intercourse — a brief time 
as numbered by years, but long enough in the calendar 
of words and deeds. I trust neither of us is the worse for 
the company, and that we shall part with kindly words, 
good wishes and mutual blessings, until we see each 
other again. I trust that in these preceding pages, each 
one of you may have found some thought you will deem 
worthy to lay away for preservation among the locks of 
hair and old letters and faded flowers and other souven- 
irs which each of you keep and look at when the world 
presses heavily upon you with its cares and anxieties. 

I trust that you may have found something that is 
beautiful in the lives of each one of our little family 
with whom you have been made acquainted, in your 
companionship with me. I frankly confess to you that 
I have a tender regard for them all, and that I shall be 
disappointed if you do not share the same, as I have 
only been their mouthpiece ivhen they have spoken. I 
know that they regret the parting with you as much as 
I, and that if we ever meet again, they will extend to 
you the same warm welcome as I. 



340 The End. 

And now the book closes, just as the birds are flying 
to the warmer South and the groves are growing 
strangely silent \ just as the flowers are fading in the 
gardens and in the fields; just as the leaves are falling 
in the forests, and the hill-sides are beginning to drape 
themselves in the melancholy and tender beauty of the 
Autumn. I cannot make this parting without a feeling 
of regret and a certain sadness; and, as I extend my 
hand to each and all of you — to some whom I have met 
daily, to some whose faces have grown familiar, and to 
some whom I have never seen and may never see, and 
yet have sent me precious words of sympathy and en- 
couragement during these past three years — I should be 
ungrateful were I not to acknowledge the constant kind- 
ness which has greeted these careless letters as they have 
appeared in the columns of the Tribune. 

Hoping that, in some future time, we may meet to- 
gether again as now, it only remains to say Farewell, 
and to write those saddest of all words — 

THE END. 

September 22, 1869. 




